


Make Amends (And Start Anew Again)

by ineffable_killjoy



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dutch van der Linde gets a Redemption Arc, Fluff, High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Time Travel Fix-It, because I say so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffable_killjoy/pseuds/ineffable_killjoy
Summary: Arthur wakes up in Colter, before it all, and he refuses to let everything fall apart again.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 90
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, listen. So this fandom/ship may be dead, and I may have not written/published fic in over two years, but idk and idc because I recently finished RDR2 and I have f e e l i n g s and I just really needed to get this out of my system
> 
> Updates will probably be sporadic because I have school and I'm bad at schedules. Also, full disclosure, I think this is the longest fic I've ever written/tried to write. I only have the first few chapters done and I have a feeling I'm going to be bad at keeping an ongoing fic rolling for however long it takes for me to grind out the rest of it. So yeah, fair warning, the chances that I lose motivation and either go on a long hiatus or give up on this fic part way through are definitely higher than I'd like them to be fdjldakfdjlas
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy the fic, or something

Arthur closed his eyes to the sunset, the taste of blood heavy in his mouth. He’d expected to feel more fear and dread when the moment finally came, but strangely, he found a peaceful acceptance in death that he’d never felt in life. Despite everything he’d done, he’d at least managed to get as many people out alive as he could, and while maybe that wasn’t enough to call ‘redemption’ by any definition of the word, he’d made peace with himself, and all his sins. As he breathed his last, he pictured a buck gazing at him from somewhere far away, flicking its tail and beckoning him into the darkness...

* * *

He came back to awareness slowly, gradually becoming more and more aware of the icy numbness of his nose and cheeks. After the sensation of cold came the noise, voices upon voices overlapping and bouncing around in his head. Arthur hadn’t been expecting much out of the afterlife, so he was taken by surprise at how viscerally _physical_ everything was. In fact, it felt eerily similar to how plain _living_ felt, which… huh. That was a thought.

“How is he doing?” someone asked from somewhere above him. The voice was familiar, something about it striking alarm bells in the back of his mind.

“Well, he’s not injured, as far as I can tell. Maybe the exhaustion or the cold got to him,” said another voice that washed over Arthur like a bucket of freezing water. His eyes shot open and he gasped, lungs filling with cold, fresh air, and the way his breath flowed so _easily_ through his body was so overwhelming he nearly threw up, but that was secondary to the fact that there was no way he could have heard that voice right.

“Hosea?!” he half-shouted, eyes darting around until they landed on a familiar weathered face. He felt light-headed and his vision blurred. “I thought you was — I thought _I_ was —” Arthur’s jaw stopped working when he glanced around the room to see the whole gang gathered around, staring at him with varying levels of concern. His eyes landed on Lenny, then Susan, then darted back to Hosea, sitting at his side, and then up over Hosea’s shoulder at— 

“Dutch…” he breathed. Something warm and wet sliced hot trails down the sides of his face. Surrounded by the closest thing he’d ever had to a family once more after losing everything made something in his chest squeeze, and for a frantic moment he wondered if he still had that _damn_ TB, but no, that wasn’t right. “What… the _hell_ is going on?”

Arthur suspected he wouldn’t get any of the answers he really wanted from his inquiry, but something was better than nothing and would maybe help him start piecing together what sort of mess he’d gotten himself (back?) into.

Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder gently. “You passed out, Arthur,” he explained. “Dutch sent you to scout ahead, and you found this old abandoned mining town that we could hole up in, but you passed out right after returning.”

Were they in… Colter? That would explain the temperature. How did they end up in this freezing hellhole? The only time they’d ever been was back right after... “... Blackwater?”

He regretted it the moment the name of that damned town escaped his lips, as the concerned looks directed at him only intensified. Hosea nodded. “We got out safely, don’t you worry yourself, Arthur. Well, except for poor Jenny and Davey… and we don’t know where Sean and Mac are. Did you hit your head or something? How much do you remember?”

Irrationally, Arthur wanted to laugh. He remembered too damn much for anything to make sense, but it wasn’t like that was something he could admit to. He couldn’t even begin to put to words what had happened. He’d died and then… what, woken up in the past? That was ludicrous. Had he hallucinated the events of the past few months? No, it had felt too real to be something he’d dreamed up while unconscious, the physical memory of damn near coughing his lungs out for weeks and weeks still a phantom pain lingering in his chest. So what, then, was this the afterlife, or hell? Was he doomed to watch helplessly all over again as his family fell apart and died around him while he was unable to do anything to help? “Sorry, it’s, ah, it’s coming back to me now. Didn’t get hurt none, I just…” he faltered. “... I dunno, maybe it was the stress.” The excuse was feeble and he knew it; he had been through _much_ more stressful situations before without adverse effect, but what else could he say?

“... You’re crying, son. Are you sure you’re alright?” Dutch, now, crouching down and placing his hand on Arthur’s other shoulder. Arthur couldn’t hide his flinch, a different version of the man in front of him flashing briefly in his mind’s eye. Or maybe it had been the same version, after all, just one stripped of a facade Arthur had believed in for too many years. Dutch pulled away, his face twisting into something hurt and confused, and despite everything that he’d taken from Arthur he hated that he could _still_ feel an instinctive apology on the tip of his tongue, the pressure of it almost tangible behind his teeth.

“I’m—” hallucinating, out of my damn mind, come back to life after you left me to die alone on a mountain— “fine,” Arthur finished, not quite able to hide the bitterness from his voice.

Dutch’s brow furrowed and Arthur could almost read what he was thinking: how are we going to get out of this if my best gun is out of commission? Dutch had always been easy to read, at least for Arthur, but as things had progressed, it had become less and less of a comfort to him. The realization that, even back before it all completely went to shit, Dutch had only ever cared for what Arthur could _do_ , or ‘his strength’, as Dutch would put it, made resentment bubble all the more strongly, clawing through his gut and bracing itself in the back of his throat as an angry rant that he forced himself to save for later.

“Well,” Dutch said, straightening and leaving a draft of freezing air to take his place at Arthur’s side, “as I was saying… I am going out to see if I can find Micah or John. Arthur, you rest up here—”

Arthur felt panic surge through him and he was instantly scrambling to his feet. “No!” he damn near shouted, startling the rest of the gang, whose attentions had shifted to Dutch as was the tendency whenever the man spoke. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and added in a softer voice, “I’m fine, Dutch. I’ll go with you, don’t worry about me.”

He probably should have expected the truly incredulous expression Dutch levelled him with. “You passed out, Arthur,” Dutch said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Javier can come with me while you rest. We need you strong, son.”

Arthur shook his head, already pushing his way past the crowd. He snatched his hat from where it had been laid on one of the tables scattered throughout the building, jamming it back on his head. If this really was the past, or a second chance, or something, then he’d rather be involved in it than not, at least until he figured out what the hell was going on. Better safe than sorry, he figured. “I’m telling you I’m fine, Dutch,” he said again, more sharply this time. Perhaps he hadn’t done a good job at concealing the hostility in his voice, because Dutch was visibly taken aback. And then, just because he could, he added in a snarky drawl, “I _insist_ upon it.”

Dutch’s eyebrows raised. Arthur couldn’t tell if he was more amused or annoyed at Arthur’s repeated rebuffs of his authority. Back, well, _before_ , Arthur would have leaned more towards ‘annoyed’ and maybe even gone further to ‘enraged’, but this version of Dutch was more… relaxed. Or at least, better at hiding his anger. Dutch huffed out a laugh, rubbing his hands together from the cold. “He _insists_ upon it,” he muttered to himself disbelievingly. It was impossible for Dutch to know just how soberingly reminiscent his reaction was to that of a cold, deranged, desperate man at his wit’s end, but Arthur felt a foreboding shiver crawl down his spine all the same.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Hosea snapped, stepping in front of Arthur with a matter-of-factness that made Arthur ache with fondness. The older man’s eyes darted from Arthur, who was resolute, to Dutch, who was astounded, and he rubbed a gloved hand over his face. Perhaps he could read Arthur’s determination in the set of his jaw, because he directed his pleas to Dutch instead. “ _Dutch_ , he passed out!”

Arthur reached out and laid a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Hosea, I promise you I’m feeling better’n I have in a long time,” he said truthfully, trying to convey his honesty with the weight of his gaze. “I’ll be okay.”

It was clear that Hosea still wanted to protest, but deflated in the face of Arthur’s stoic certainty. He sighed. “Alright, just… don’t get yourself killed, you stubborn fool.” He turned to Dutch. “And you—”

“I will make sure he is safe, old girl,” Dutch waved off Hosea’s concern, still miffed at Arthur’s defiance. “He _insists_ ,” he repeated to himself, pushing his way out the door.

Arthur stepped out after him, the chill that instantly wrapped itself around his entire body something he never thought he’d be able to experience again. His newfound appreciation for being alive didn’t stop him from shivering, though, rubbing his gloved hands over his arms. Dutch glanced over at him and said, “We ain’t run into them yet, so they both must have headed down the hill.”

Arthur grunted. He didn’t quite feel like verbally addressing the man, not right now. He vaguely remembered asking something about the ferry job in Blackwater the first time around, but, well. He hadn’t gotten anything out of Dutch then and he doubted he would get any more out of him now, so he stayed quiet. Dutch levelled Arthur with a considering gaze before turning away. “C’mon,” he said, beginning to trudge through the thick snow.

Charles called out to them from their right, emerging from the snow leading Taima and The Count. Arthur felt something in him warm at the sight. Charles had been one of the only ones on his side, at the end, someone Arthur had considered a true friend.

He mounted Taima as Dutch instructed Charles to get inside and rest his hand, nodding a silent thanks as he settled into the unfamiliar saddle. He spurred her on, following Dutch, who was already several paces ahead.

“Stay close, we’ll do our best to stick to the trail,” Dutch instructed, glancing behind himself briefly to make sure Arthur was with him. Arthur acquiesced silently. Then came a fragile emptiness between them that Arthur, in another life, filled with the beginnings of a conversation. Right now, though, there was nothing he really wanted to say to Dutch, nothing that wouldn’t end in a screaming fit on Arthur’s end, at least. If Dutch was unnerved or concerned with his silence, it was difficult to tell, what with all the snow and the distance.

Dutch made several comments on the weather, which were met by more silent nods and barely audible grunts. He tapered off eventually, allowing Arthur to reflect on what had happened to him. He didn’t know how or why he had been given this chance, if it was indeed a chance and not just hell, but he would make the most of it. Even if it was hell, he’d rather not risk not doing anything on the off chance that it _wasn’t_. He needed to save everyone, or at least as many people as possible. Sean, Kieran, Lenny… Hosea and Miss Grimshaw and even Eagle Flies if he could help it. So many needless lives lost because… because of Dutch and his goddamn plans. He didn’t even know how to begin fixing things, because he couldn’t say for certain where it all began. Had it been the circumstances that had got to Dutch? Hosea’s death? Micah, that rat, whispering in his ear? Or maybe he’d always been a greedy, selfish sonofabitch and Arthur had only realized too late.

They crossed the stream beside Colter in silence, and it was only after a few more moments that Arthur was drawn out of his musings when Dutch carefully asked, “Did something happen, Arthur?”

“Hm…? Well, I guess you could say that I see things a lot clearer now,” Arthur responded cryptically, though he didn’t elaborate on what he meant when Dutch gazed at him expectantly. “I ain’t hurt, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, you seem particularly… conflicted after your incident,” Dutch prodded. “Just making sure my strongest gun is doing alright. You know you’ve always been special to me, and I… I just worry, is all.”

The words reminded him of something similar Dutch had said back then, only it had been a lie, just like everything else that Dutch had ever said. The cold fury that had been brewing ever since he’d woken up surged through him again, and this time he couldn’t help but scoff, “Sure, Dutch, more like you’re worried that you won’t be able to use me as a work-horse and a killing machine if I’m hurt.”

“Arthur!” Dutch sounded affronted. “I can’t believe you would think that of me. Have you completely lost faith in me, is that it?”

Arthur bristled at the familiar words, a sudden rage surging through him, and yanked on Taima’s reins, bringing her to a sharp halt as he turned and met the eyes of the man he used to see as a mentor and a friend. A part of him warned that it might be better to lie low, pretend he was the same old Arthur, blindly trusting that Dutch would do right by the gang, but, well. Being betrayed by the man time and time again, having his hand stepped on as he wheezed and choked on his own blood on a mountaintop… his faith had been stretched beyond the breaking point, and Arthur had never been good at hiding his feelings. “I dunno, Dutch, have I?” he spat, watching as Dutch flinched back in surprise at Arthur’s aggressive tone. “I think the real question is, have _you_ completely lost faith in _me_? In _us_? When was the last damn time you listened to something Hosea or I had to say? Back in Blackwater, when you did that ferry job in spite of both of us warnin’ you not to, did you have _any goddamn faith_ in us, Dutch?” Arthur’s fists clenched hard around the reins, defiant and enraged.

For the second time in Arthur’s life (or lives, now, he supposed), he watched as Dutch opened his mouth to say something and couldn’t find the words.

The two stared at each other through the snow, the wind howling around them and slicing through the warmth of their coats. The sudden heat of anger ebbed from Arthur’s very bones as he took in Dutch’s shocked demeanour. He had expected an outburst to be cathartic. Dutch always was quick on his feet when it came to the pretty platitudes he liked to dispense; rendering him speechless was no small feat and should have felt immensely satisfying. Instead, Arthur just felt hollowed out inside, scraped raw and vulnerable before Dutch in a way he despised. Maybe, a small, traitorous part of him whispered, it was wrong of him to take out his anger on a Dutch who hadn’t yet made the same mistakes. This Dutch, not yet knowing the weight of his own sins, looked overwhelmed and hurt by the sheer vehemence of Arthur’s resentment. Arthur regretted it. Not the words he’d said, but the timing of it, maybe. He didn’t know anymore. Everything was a mess and he couldn’t sort out the tangle of emotions catching in his lungs if he tried.

“Interrupting something, gentlemen?”

… That goddamn _rat_.

Arthur and Dutch turned in tandem to see Micah hovering just on the edge of visibility, his lantern casting flickering shadows across his smug face, and then Arthur was mad all over again.

This was a different kind of anger, though, a helpless one. Lingering in his gut and leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but not quite as explosive or vivid as that which he felt for Dutch. Somehow, even though it was Micah who’d beaten him halfway to death on that mountain, Dutch’s betrayal had hurt more than anything the slimy bastard had managed to do. What he felt for Micah was something similar to what a man mauled by a wild animal might have felt; you hate it for ripping you apart and causing your death, but in the end, you knew it couldn’t help its nature. The blame lay in those who should have had better judgment than to get close to such a clearly dangerous beast, much less lead his whole family to a bloody end by walking alongside it.

“Micah,” Dutch said, sounding equal parts irritated and relieved. Arthur watched from under the brim of his hat as the man shook off the weight of their conversation, visibly straightening in his saddle. He ignored Micah’s comment. “Found anything?”

The rest was just as Arthur remembered, really. Micah told them about the homestead and the three of them rode through the snow as Micah traded barbed remarks with Arthur. Or tried to, while Arthur remained sullenly silent this time around. When they approached the homestead, Arthur ‘noticed’ the body in the wagon before Dutch split off, but nothing much came of it or changed because of it. Dutch chose to go up to the house anyway in order to figure out who these men were while Micah and Arthur hid, ready to provide backup if needed. It would have been easier to tell Dutch that they were O’Driscolls, but Arthur couldn’t exactly say that without an explanation he didn’t have as to how he knew. The gunfight was over almost as soon as it started, the motions of killing as bitterly familiar to Arthur as the kick of the Cattleman in his hand.

“That’s my boy, Arthur! Good shooting,” Dutch shouted, seemingly forgetting their earlier discourse in the adrenaline rush as the last echoes of gunshots were suffocated by the snow. The praise had warmed him once upon a time, but now it only served to remind Arthur of his place: he was but a gun, a killer to carry out all Dutch’s dirty work and further his violent plans. “Goddamn O’Driscoll boys, here? Why?” Dutch continued, holstering his weapons and frowning down at a bloodied corpse by his feet.

“I dunno, maybe same reason as us,” Micah said, raising his voice to be heard over the storm.

Dutch asked Micah to bring the horses closer to the homestead, instructing Arthur to search the cabin with him. Arthur grabbed as much food and supplies as he could carry before making his way to the chest at the foot of the bed, shoving it aside and lifting the carpet underneath to reveal a trapdoor that he knew led to where the bastards had kept Sadie. “Seems like there’s a cellar here,” he called out to Dutch, who had already left the building, as he crouched down to examine it.

The moment he did, the door burst open, and Sadie Adler leapt screaming from the space beneath. Arthur flinched backwards on instinct, cursing in surprise as he scrambled back to his feet. The grieving woman snagged a bottle and threw it at him. She shouted “Get away from me!” in a voice shrill with fury and terror all at once.

“What the hell is going on?” Dutch, who’d charged in with his gun drawn at the noise, looked between Arthur and Sadie. The woman screamed again, wordless. Raw with grief. She picked up another bottle, throwing it as well. Arthur dodged, just barely, and it shattered against the wall behind him.

Micah ran in immediately after, pistols in hand. “Well, looks like you found another O’Driscoll, Morgan,” he drawled, sadistic laughter on the edge of his voice. “What're we gonna do with her, boss?”

“She ain’t an O’Driscoll, Micah, look at her!” Dutch said, shooting Micah a reprimanding glare. Sadie ran out of bottles to throw and seized a knife. Her hand shook with adrenaline as she brandished it wildly, eyes darting between them as if unsure who was the biggest threat. Her focus shifted to Arthur, who was the closest and had been edging closer, a placating hand between himself and the tip of the knife.

“Miss, please calm down,” Arthur said in as gentle a voice he could muster. “It is gonna be okay, all them that hurt you, they’re gone now.”

The knife trembled in her grip as she let her arm fall slightly. She glanced around again, at her ransacked home and at Dutch and Arthur, who had both assumed defensive but non-threatening positions. She let Arthur pry the knife from her hands and set it back down on the table.

“We mean you no harm,” Dutch said, making his way past Arthur. He carefully placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. We have a place, a camp, where you can stay if you want. You okay, miss?”

Sadie broke down, hands coming up to shield her face as dry sobs began to heave her shoulders. “They — they came… three days ago… my husband, they—” she broke off as Dutch guided her out from the ruined home. He grabbed a thick blanket, laying it on her shoulders. Arthur had once appreciated Dutch’s generosity, his desire to help those in need, but now it only made him wonder if that, too, was a front. Well, at least Micah hadn’t set the house on fire this time around.

Dutch led her to his horse, murmuring comforting words to her as she heaved panicked breaths. Arthur helped her up as Dutch mounted. “Is there anything I can grab for you from your house, Miss?” Arthur asked as an afterthought, once she had settled behind Dutch.

Sadie stared at him blankly for a moment, unable to process the words. Then she said, “On the mantle, there’s a photograph of — of us, and a necklace, by the bed, it was a — it was from him.” She turned away from the house, unable to look at it. Arthur nodded and started to head back inside.

Dutch nodded grimly, adding, “Be swift, Arthur, we need to get back before she freezes. Oh, and Micah, check the barn quickly, before we go.”

Arthur found the requested items and came back outside, expecting Micah to be leading that Tennessee Walker from the barn, but Micah was empty-handed. Arthur paused, brow drawing together in confusion, until he remembered: _that damn O’Driscoll that had ambushed him the first time around._

“Barn’s empty,” Micah was saying to Dutch, “but there were fresh tracks right outside. Reckon some lily-livered bastard was hidin’ in there with a horse and took off during our little commotion with the missus. Should I take after him?”

Arthur froze, a million different thoughts going through his brain. The O’Driscoll had gotten away with the horse before any of them were able to find out why Colm was hiding away in the Grizzlies. Which meant that Dutch didn’t know about the O’Driscoll hideout southwest of Lake Isabella or the train, and if they never robbed Cornwall and got him funding Pinkertons to hunt them down, then…

“No,” Dutch decided, “it’s too dangerous to go out alone, and the weather’s getting worse. I doubt a lone O’Driscoll’s gonna last long in this weather, anyway. We should head back.”

“You got it, boss,” Micah responded, mounting Baylock. He spotted Arthur, standing frozen at the doorway of the Adler ranch. “You heard him, cowpoke, now’s not the time to be standing around,” he called, smirking when Arthur jolted and shot him a glare.

“Shut the hell up, rat-faced bastard,” Arthur growled, making his way down the stairs and trudging through the snow to reach Taima. Once he was mounted, he looked back over at Dutch. For once, he was starting to feel something akin to hope tentatively blooming in his chest.

Dutch jerked his head, spurring The Count into action. “Let’s go, boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will probably be out sooner rather than later because I've written up to chapter 4 at the moment. Just gotta get around to editing and all that, but ch. 2 is shorter so hopefully it won't take too long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly kind of shook at the response the first chapter got?? I wasn't really expecting much LOL but all your comments and kudos made my day like, I cannot describe how over-the-moon I was (and still am), thank you so much <333
> 
> As a side note, I changed the number of chapters because I had to rework a scene in my outline and then somehow added two chapters, so yeah I guess you have that to look forward to lol. It might change again in the future, but I'm fairly confident in saying that the fic will end up being around 14/15 chapters.
> 
> Anyways, chapter 2. It's on the shorter side, but hopefully the third one will make up for it later. Enjoy!

The next day, Arthur sat down next to Javier, who was whittling by the fire, and asked him, “You busy?”

“Sure, busy freezing my ass off,” Javier responded easily. “Why?”

“John’s been gone a while.”

“And _you_ want to go out looking for him?”

“Now what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“... Nothing. Let’s go.”

They returned an injured, frozen, half-starved John to a grateful Abigail, who proceeded to chew his ear off for being a reckless fool even while she, Swanson, and Grimshaw tended to his wounds. Hosea in particular couldn’t believe that Arthur had gone out to find John of his own volition and was over the moon that Arthur had seemingly forgiven his brother. The older man then proceeded to go about his business with such a soft pride about him that Arthur, flustered, retreated to bed early that day while muttering half-hearted insults the whole way.

The day after, Arthur woke early to go hunting, asking to borrow Charles’ horse again, and his bow this time, too. Charles raised an eyebrow and commented, “I thought you didn’t know how to hunt.”

Arthur shrugged and smiled enigmatically. “Someone taught me recently.”

“Huh,” Charles said. “Well, I suppose you’re never too old to learn.”

He came back with a deer, much to everyone’s surprise. He felt bad that he couldn’t have brought back two, like he had that last time with Charles, but without the horse from the Adler ranch it was the best he could do. Arthur tried to return the bow, but Charles simply shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said, “you’ll be using it more than me at this rate, anyhow.”

In the following days, Arthur took up his usual role as the camp’s provider, as he was the only capable man who could actually hunt, what with Charles and Hosea still recovering. He used his position as an excuse to leave early and return late, but in reality he was just avoiding an inevitable talking-to by Dutch. Arthur could feel the man’s contemplative stare on him nearly constantly, waiting for a chance to catch him alone so they could speak (or, more likely, so that Dutch could lecture Arthur about faith and plans and money), and Arthur did his utmost to avoid it, waking up far too early to be healthy and sneaking into his quarters through the side door just to avoid passing Dutch’s room.

Two days after his first hunting trip, he took Taima down to Lake Isabella and spotted a beautiful white Arabian horse. He managed to tame her and proudly brought her back to camp alongside a much larger haul than usual, the two horses laden with the fruits of his hunt.

His careful avoidance of Dutch came to an abrupt end the very next day when the man caught him as he was saddling his new Arabian, who he’d named Khione. She was still a little finicky and didn’t take well to his attempts, but Arthur managed by bribing her with an apple he’d picked up at the Adler ranch. “Yer alright, girl, c’mon now,” he crooned, adjusting the spare saddle as she chewed.

“You’re really good with her,” Dutch said from behind him, and Arthur startled. He hadn’t heard the other man approach, the crunch of footsteps on snow having been disguised by Arthur’s negotiations with Khione. Arthur rested his forehead against the horse’s neck and closed his eyes briefly with a sigh before turning to face Dutch.

“Mornin’, Dutch,” he said, tangling his hand in Khione’s mane as the horse nickered and eyed the new arrival. Dutch was leading The Count behind him, and Arthur felt a distinct sense of dread at what that implied.

Dutch gave a smile that was too much teeth, with a smug tilt to it that set Arthur on edge. “You’ve been hunting a lot recently; mind if I join you today?”

Arthur frowned. “Dutch, no offence, but last time we went hunting together you told me that a shotgun was an acceptable weapon to use on a rabbit.”

Dutch broke out into booming laughter, patting Arthur on the shoulder jovially and squeezing just on the edge of too tight. “Well, you’re about twenty years older now. ’Sides, from what you’ve been bringing back, it seems you know what you’re doing, so I’m not too worried. I’ll just tag along in case you need an extra pair of hands.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow and said, “So let me get this straight: as usual, you want to ‘tag along’ and watch while I do all the hard work?”

His dry statement was waved away by Dutch as the other man stepped up onto The Count’s stirrup and settled himself into his saddle. After giving the albino a pat on the neck, he winked at Arthur, who was still watching with a hand stroking through Khione’s mane. “Don’t whine, Arthur, it’s unbecoming of you. Now, shall we get going?”

Damn the stubborn bastard. Well, there was one more thing… “I’m uh, planning on this bein’ a two or three day trip. Gonna be riding down to Cattail Pond. ’S prolly best you stay behind for this one.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Give me five minutes, I’ll pack my tent and bedroll.”

… Shit.

* * *

The ride was relatively silent for a few blessed hours. Arthur could only assume that Dutch was forming a plan of attack, thinking up ways to lull Arthur into a benign conversation before slipping in the desired questions regarding Arthur’s faith and loyalty like a knife under the ribs. Why the man felt the need to default to such tactics instead of simply asking was beyond Arthur’s comprehension. Or, it wasn’t, really, Dutch was just… like that. A little manipulative, but not usually in a bad way, or at least that was what Arthur used to think. At this point, Dutch’s eyes felt like they were permanently seared into the back of Arthur’s skull, the tension between them spiking when Dutch finally decided to attempt conversation.

“Weather’s been pretty clear recently, I reckon it won’t be long until we get some thaw.”

“Mm.”

“Maybe in a week or two we’ll be on the move again. Not West, unfortunately, but just to get somewhere we can lie low and shake them Pinkertons off our tail.”

“Mmhm.”

“You notice Bill’s been complaining for lack of things to do recently? Maybe you should take him out on a hunting trip, see if he’s any good with that bow.”

Dutch slid Arthur a sideways glance. Another Arthur would have taken the bait, laughed maybe, made a snide remark about Bill’s inability to be subtle, much less discreet enough to sneak up on a wild animal. Instead, Arthur shrugged. “Maybe,” he agreed vaguely. Arthur expected Dutch to get angry, then, or become annoyed and fall silent himself. It probably hurt his pride to be so thoroughly ignored. Much to Arthur’s surprise, the side glance didn’t turn into the characteristic scowl that he’d been getting _very_ familiar with in recent months; Dutch simply looked disappointed. Even more surprisingly, though, Dutch persisted in his attempts.

“It would probably do the camp some good to have more than one provider, what with Charles’ hand and Hosea’s… well. Now I know, you’d clearly miss my charming company, but as much as I’d like to spend my days scavenging in the backwoods with you, living on deer piss and rabbit shit, there are certain things that demand my attentions. You should consider bringing Javier or Lenny out, they seem like they’d be quick studies. Hell, maybe you could even bring Micah, iron out whatever bad blood is between the two of you.”

Arthur couldn’t help but scoff at the notion. He wouldn’t piss on Micah if the bastard was burning to death in front of him. Unfortunately, Dutch took the noise as a sign that he was beginning to get through to Arthur, and he perked up eagerly. It was kind of endearing, the way Dutch was the one seeking after Arthur’s attention for once — a strange reversal of roles that, actually, didn’t feel quite as strange as Arthur would have expected. If anything, it kind of warmed him that Dutch was bothering to go to such lengths in order to sort things out between them, even if it was for the express purpose of re-establishing Arthur’s loyalty, or something. The other Dutch… well, he wouldn’t have bothered, probably would have just shouted and ignored Arthur’s feelings, and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

On the one hand, Arthur’s memories replayed cold, distant eyes, growing ever more unconcerned even in the face of Arthur’s near-constant bouts of coughing, his drastic weight loss, the pallid quality of his skin and his exhausted slump. Dutch had asked after him only once, back then, and when he had, his eyes had said, “You are only useful to me as long as you remain loyal” and “I don’t care if you’re dying as long as I can still rely on you to do as I say and do it well” while his voice had turned a simple “Are you feeling alright, Arthur?” into something sharp and dangerous and patronizing all at once.

On the other hand was the Dutch before him, leaning forward eagerly in his saddle, bright-eyed and looking at Arthur, _seeing_ him again, making too-strong gestures as he rambled on about breaking up a fight between Micah and Bill yesterday because Micah had made a snide comment about Lenny, referencing the colour of his skin, and Lenny had shot back with something a hundred times wittier and Bill had laughed so hard Micah’d lost it and clocked him right in the face and the two of them had gotten into it because Javier and Lenny hadn’t been able to keep Bill off of him and I can’t believe how the camp completely falls apart without you, Arthur, sometimes I think you’re more the mother hen than Hosea and speaking of, did I tell you—

Arthur felt his resolve starting to weaken. He couldn’t do this.

“Stop.”

Dutch did, mid-sentence with his mouth still half-open. It was so uncharacteristically undignified of him that Arthur almost laughed, or cried. Or both, he didn’t know anymore. Dutch gazed at Arthur with a mixture of hopeful anticipation and nervous dismay.

Arthur sighed. “Bear tracks, fresh, right across the trail. Keep an eye out for movement.” He spurred his horse ahead before he could see Dutch’s reaction, and stayed far enough ahead for the rest of the day so that he didn’t have to keep catching the telltale signs of Dutch’s humanity out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

They managed to get past Isabella Lake before nightfall, setting up camp a little ways down Beartooth Beck. Ever since Arthur’s thorough rebuff of Dutch’s attempts at conversation, things had been understandably quiet between them. Arthur was glad for it, except for when he wasn’t and then his stomach would twist uncomfortably at Dutch’s tense body language and he would feel vaguely sick thinking about all he had lost. Could lose all over again. Which was why he couldn’t risk it. Opening up, that was. Especially not to Dutch.

Keeping his distance was the smart choice, he reminded himself.

Arthur set up his tent and bedroll with a practiced ease that came from months of sleeping where he could, away from camp as he tried his best to provide for all of them. Dutch was more meticulous, taking his time. In fact, Arthur couldn’t recall the last time Dutch had made use of that old tent and bedroll of his; ever since the gang had grown in number, Dutch’d always been busy with his planning and leader-ly business. He opted to stay in camp most of the time, where his quarters had been taken care of by the women under the direction of Miss Grimshaw, who knew exactly how he liked his living space. A small, childish part of Arthur delighted in imagining Dutch’s later discomfort with the new, unfamiliar sleeping arrangements, kept awake by a stone digging into his back, maybe, or much colder without the thicker blankets he liked to sequester for himself.

He wasn’t aware he was staring until Dutch finished, rubbing his gloved hands together and surveying his work with a distinctly satisfied air. The older man turned, seeing Arthur watching him and raising an eyebrow in response. Arthur cast his eyes away immediately, lowering his head so the brim of his hat covered up the sudden, irrational redness heating his face. “Saw some rabbit tracks earlier, gonna see if I can catch one for dinner,” he mumbled, stalking off into the nearby woods.

Arthur returned a little later, successful, and continued to avoid looking at Dutch as he skinned the rabbit and prepared their meal. Dinner was a silent, tense affair, much like the rest of the trip had been so far. Dutch finished first and didn’t bother to disguise the fact that he was avidly studying Arthur’s face in the dimness. Arthur finished shortly after and was standing to go to bed when Dutch said, “I don’t understand what your goddamn problem is, Arthur.”

And there it was, at last — the anger. The pieces were falling back into place. Arthur finally looked at him, glad to be able to break this facade, ready to be accused of losing the faith and being disloyal, ready to be cast aside like nothing because he refused to continue following orders blindly, but then he met Dutch’s eyes.

There was anger there, undeniably, but there was also…

_Concern. Pain. Confusion. Lo —_

They broke eye contact, something large and unfamiliar expanding in the silence. The distance between them suddenly felt like too much and not enough all at once and, afraid of himself, Arthur all but fled to his tent. He paused at the threshold, holding the flap open to enter. Against his better judgment, he looked back to where Dutch crouched by the fire, the warm light of the flames rolling gently over his handsome features. The older man looked lost and vulnerable in a way Arthur had never seen before, and it made his chest hurt.

“Sometimes, neither do I,” he murmured, just loud enough for Dutch to hear. He stepped into his tent and let the flap fall between them, a fragile barrier fluttering uncertainly for a few delicate moments before falling still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ch. 3 will definitely take longer than this one to get posted, fair warning. You'll be glad to know, however, that I am so obsessed with writing this fic right now that I have to motivate myself to do homework (that I've already procrastinated on) by promising that I'll be able to continue writing when I'm done. So, the motivation is high right now to say the least lmao, and I'm optimistic that the next update won't take /too/ long, fingers crossed


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this a couple days ago, but then school decided to start destroying me, so.
> 
> Anyways, here's chapter 3! Hope y'all enjoy <3

Dutch didn’t sleep that night. Arthur knew this because he didn’t sleep either, plagued by nightmares of not being able to breathe, coughing and coughing and coughing until the blood wouldn’t stop spilling out of his mouth and onto his hands, filling the world around him until he was drowning in it. He’d slept like the dead the last few days, body too exhausted by fleeing from Blackwater to do anything else, but now that he was out in the woods with only his worst fears for company, the dreams wouldn’t stop. He laid awake for most of the night, listening as Dutch tossed and turned in the tent beside him. The other man had been shivering so hard his teeth chattered. Arthur didn’t know why and he told himself he didn’t care to find out. Dutch had probably been a fool again and forgotten to pack an extra blanket; it wasn’t his problem.

Maybe, if he was lucky, Dutch would freeze overnight and all of Arthur’s problems would be solved just like that. Hell, maybe _Arthur_ would freeze, and he would finally be able to stop worrying about the Pinkertons and Micah and Dutch and John and god, what if not robbing Cornwall didn’t change anything and they were doomed to die and scatter anyways, and their dream of purchasing land out West was something far too good for a gang of outlaws to deserve?

Unfortunately, neither of them froze overnight, and both left their tents in the morning with full knowledge that the other hadn’t slept a wink.

Arthur quickly packed up and stowed his things on Khione and looked over to see Dutch doing the same withThe Count, all the while regarding Arthur blandly. The older man hadn’t pomaded his hair that morning, a few strands of it falling to frame his face. Arthur hated how it made him look softer, more like a Dutch from a time before the gang had grown large and their responsibilities with it.

He forcibly tore his eyes away from Dutch. “Let’s get going then,” he muttered.

“If you say so, Arthur.”

What was Dutch’s angle this time?

“I do,” Arthur snapped, agitated at Dutch’s blasé tone, the lack of sleep making him more hostile than usual.

“Alright.”

 _Damn you_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he ground his teeth together and forced himself into silence. He jerked Khione’s reins and surged ahead, leaving Dutch to follow in his wake.

* * *

Arthur cursed as the arrow whistled through the air, not needing to see the rest of its trajectory to know it was off. Sure enough, it sailed right past the bighorn ram he had been tracking and the animal spooked and fled. “Goddammit.”

“Having trouble there?” Dutch sounded amused, having spent the past hour or so watching as Arthur had missed every shot.

“Shut up,” Arthur grunted. He glanced over to where Dutch was crouched behind him, even more strands of his black hair hanging loose and sticking to his face. His heart squeezed, and for a moment it was almost like it was ten years ago, the two of them spending a day or two camping out in the woods to take a break from robbing the rich. They usually fished instead of hunting, though. More specifically, Dutch would fish while Arthur sketched in his journal, as Arthur had never been good at the sport. Those peaceful evenings were some of Arthur’s favourite memories. The moment passed quickly, but Arthur let his guard down enough that the words, “I’d like to see _you_ try, old man,” slipped past his lips almost without his awareness. He froze immediately afterwards, resisting the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose as Dutch’s smile grew. He’d barely spoken to Dutch since they’d left their temporary camp that morning and he had been intending to keep it that way.

“I would gladly,” Dutch agreed, to Arthur’s surprise. He chuckled at Arthur’s incredulous expression. “Teach me?”

“You…” Arthur trailed off. He thought about it, fingers flexing where they gripped the bow. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll teach you the basics, if it’ll get you to shut up while I’m trying to focus.”

Dutch looked almost as shocked as Arthur was at his reluctant agreement, but he quickly acquiesced when Arthur jerked his head to come closer. “Well, you know how to track, right?”

The older man shrugged. “Sort of. I ain’t great at it, though, especially with the lack of snow.”

“Good enough,” Arthur decided. He pressed the bow into Dutch’s hand. “Well, you saw the direction that ram went. I’ll follow your lead.”

Dutch glanced down at the bow in his hand, eyeing it gingerly as if Arthur had secretly dipped it in horse shit prior to handing it over. His hesitancy was kind of amusing. Dutch turned to study the ground, casting about for the ram’s trail before he found it and crept deeper into the woods.

He did pretty well, actually, all things considered. Arthur had only had to help him once when Dutch lost the trail over a stretch of rocky ground. They finally spotted the ram, and a couple of sheep too, drinking at the edge of the pond. Dutch began making his way toward them when Arthur grabbed his arm to stop him and shook his head. “It’s best if we circle around that way,” he said low and into Dutch’s ear. “Wind’s blowing southeast.”

There was no response from Dutch for a second. It was as if the man had frozen, tensed up under Arthur’s touch and staring into the distance. Arthur opened his mouth to ask if something was wrong, but just then Dutch relaxed, rolled his shoulders, and was off without another word. Arthur stared after him for a beat, confused. The hell?

Dutch stopped when he was an appropriate distance from the ram, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur to confirm. Arthur shook his head. “We should prolly get a little closer,” he said quietly.

“Won’t they spot us?”

“It’s possible, but this distance is a bit much for a beginner.”

Dutch got a prideful, competitive gleam in his eye. “I dunno,” he said, “I think I can handle it.”

Arthur gave him a withering stare. “You can’t,” he deadpanned. “Now let’s get a little closer before they move, stubborn old bastard.”

The other man glanced down at the bow and the arrow that he’d already (clumsily) nocked, then at the ram, then back at Arthur. Arthur half-expected Dutch to ignore his better judgment and try shooting from there anyways, but Dutch simply nodded. “Okay, Arthur, I trust you.”

And he really did, didn’t he, Arthur realized. For all that Dutch had refused to trust him, in the end, he had at one point, right? Where had it all gone wrong, he wondered. Had it been Micah’s influence, or Hosea’s death, that had piled too much stress onto him to think clearly? Or had the events changed him, just as they’d changed Arthur, only the changes had served to damn him while Arthur’s eyes had been opened to redemption? What had been the point of no return? Was it even still possible to save him, or was Dutch simply too consumed by his egotistical dream of being the deliverer of salvation and freedom, blinded to the inexorable change already well on its way to transforming the country? Would he be willing to listen, if Arthur told him they had to change their ways if they wanted to survive, or would he decide he’d die for his narcissistic delusions of grandeur?

“Arthur?” Dutch asked, sensing that something in Arthur had shifted in the moment that hung nebulously between them.

Arthur was jerked back into reality. Now was not the time nor place, he told himself. “It’s nothing,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get a little closer.”

They reached the spot without much incident, save a tense moment when Dutch had stepped on a particularly loud and brittle pile of leaves. Thankfully, the animals hadn’t heard, but Dutch had stepped much more carefully after that.

“Alright,” Arthur whispered, after checking once again that the wind hadn’t changed, “you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve been watching you for the past hour, I think I can figure it out,” Dutch whispered back, raising the bow and drawing the string back. Arthur saw immediately that his form was incorrect and huffed out a laugh. Dutch let the string go slack and frowned in Arthur’s direction. “What?”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Arthur murmured. “When you draw, it should look like this.” He tried to demonstrate, making the motions as if he was the one holding the bow and drawing the arrow. Dutch watched carefully, then copied him. A little better, but still not good enough. Arthur sighed resignedly. He reached over, adjusting Dutch’s posture with a firm hand to the elbow. “Hold it up there. Your hand’s too tense, here,” he touched the hand Dutch had clenched tightly around the bow, “and when you draw, you use three fingers, with the arrow between these two.” He wrapped his other hand around Dutch’s, bending his own fingers correctly so that Dutch’s followed, before nocking the arrow. Then he grasped Dutch’s arm and pulled his elbow back past his head. “Draw the string back to around here, make sure this finger is about at the corner of your mouth, keep your wrist flat.” He bent Dutch’s wrist into proper position with a light nudge. “And keep your elbow even with the arrow.” Arthur pulled away. “Got it?”

Dutch stared at him intensely, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. Arthur felt the absurd temptation to shut it with a hand to his jaw, before brushing over his chapped lips, the fuzz of his soul patch, down the lines of his neck to feel the planes of his chest, and — shit, _shit_.

Arthur cleared his throat lightly, leaning back, and the spell was broken. Dutch blinked, looking down at the bow, then back up at the ram, who, in all that time, had conveniently decided to remain in practically the same position. The older man nodded, jaw set determinedly, and drew. It was a little awkward and hesitant, still just a touch too tense, but it was alright, and when the arrow sailed, it sailed true.

The ram fell with a distressed bleat and the sheep around it scattered in panic. Dutch stared at it in thinly disguised disbelief. Then, an honest-to-god grin began stretching across his face. Arthur couldn’t help but mirror his excitement as Dutch laughed and said gloatingly, “And you call me an old man, you unruly brat!”

“Oh, and who was the one who taught you to do it right in the first place?” Arthur drawled sarcastically as Dutch made his way to the fallen animal and pulled out the arrow with a flourish. “If it weren’t for me, you prolly woulda hurt your back and moaned about it for the next month,” he snickered.

Dutch whipped around, affronted, and pointed the bloodied arrow accusingly at him. “Watch your tone, boy,” he said lowly, but his eyes twinkled with humour. “I won’t tolerate your attitude any longer.”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur crossed his arms, jutting his chin out challengingly at the other man.

“Absolutely. I’ll make you skin this,” Dutch said seriously, gesturing at the fallen ram, as if it was some sort of threat. Although, with Dutch’s reluctance to dirty himself by doing that kind of thing, Arthur supposed that he probably believed it to be one.

Arthur just laughed. “You brought it down; if you wanna skin it, do it yourself. Gimme that.” He grabbed the bow and began walking away. “I’m gonna go see if I can track down one of those sheep, you have fun.”

“Now that just ain’t fair,” Dutch complained, but when Arthur looked back, he had unsheathed his knife and was bending down with his back to Arthur, the fabric of his pants stretching in a way that rather accentuated his… behind. Arthur couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering too long on the sight. He shook his head and turned away as Dutch crouched and began sawing the knife through the ram’s thick fur. The internal panic was starting to loom larger and larger at the back of his mind but he shoved it all away. Later, he told himself, finding the frantic trails left behind by the sheep as they’d bolted away. If he wanted to catch anything today, he’d have to think about it all later.

* * *

Arthur managed to take down two of the sheep without the distraction that was Dutch’s presence. He whistled for Khione and loaded them onto her, opting to walk back to where he’d left Dutch not too far away. When he returned, Arthur found him waiting underneath a tree, sketching idly after having skinned the ram and collected its horns. They set up their tents in a clearing nearby to butcher the game and brine the meat. It was getting late and they didn’t want to rush the journey back simply to get the fresh carcasses back to Colter.

Dutch opted to collect firewood while Arthur sorted out the game, pretending like they both didn’t know he preferred not to deal with the dirty work. Or, Arthur supposed, the dirti _er_ work, since chopping wood wasn’t exactly the height of sophistication either.

Dinner was, again, a quiet affair, although not as tense as last time. Even then, though, the tension was somehow… different now. On several instances, Arthur would, out of the corner of his eye, catch Dutch staring at him. The staring was nothing new, but last time, near the end, it had often been with a dangerous edge, almost as if Dutch had been waiting for Arthur to slip up and show some sign of the imminent betrayal he’d suspected of him. Now, though, Dutch’s heavy gaze felt… warm, in a way, made Arthur palms clammy and his stomach churn. He felt like a foolish teenager with his first crush again.

Arthur finished eating first, but instead of immediately heading to his tent this time, he pulled out his journal and began sketching a picture from memory, of the ram and sheep grazing by the pond. He felt Dutch’s eyes on him again and wondered if the other man was going to try and get Arthur to talk about what was going on with him, but Dutch simply pulled out his own sketchbook. The two men sat in companionable silence, quietly drawing as the last of the daylight faded from the sky.

They turned in when it got too dark to see, and Arthur laid in his bedroll, listening to the sounds of nature around him and once again unable to sleep. This time, though, it wasn’t on account of nightmares. Instead, Arthur was busy remembering the lingering feeling of Dutch’s eyes studying him all throughout their meal, the heat of Dutch’s body beneath Arthur’s hands as he’d taught him how to use the bow, the way Dutch’s features had almost glowed in the firelight. Truly, he thought with equal parts exasperation and despair, he was a goddamn fool.

His attraction to Dutch was nothing new and neither was his less-than-platonic feelings for him. The attraction in particular had been on-and-off since his young adulthood. And the feelings, well. He’d always loved Dutch, in one way or another. The man, along with Hosea, had saved him and taken him in, taught him everything he knew and given him something to live for. Dutch had been many things to him over the years — a mentor, a teacher, a friend, a brother-in-arms. An object of (as far as he had been aware) unrequited yearning, which he’d expected to remain that way for… ever, really. Especially since Dutch’d always been quick to find a woman to take comfort in. Arthur had seen him take interest in other men before, but it had been rare, and the occasions on which Dutch took action on such interests even rarer. Besides, most folks didn’t take kindly to that kind of thing between men, so Arthur’d pushed his feelings down for as long as he’d had them. He’d sought comfort in women, or other men. And it had worked to the point that, for a while, he’d thought he could find happiness with Eliza and, later, Mary. Of course, all that had gone exceedingly well, he thought bitterly. Eliza and Isaac had paid for Arthur’s decisions with their lives, and he hadn’t been able to live up to Mary’s standards. They both had been too good for him, had deserved more than some killing, thieving outlaw.

Dutch, on the other hand… well, he’d believed that Dutch had been too good for him, too, back then. Or, more accurately, that Arthur wasn’t enough for anyone. But especially not for Dutch. Arthur had idolized him, seen him as something greater than human. It had made Dutch’s betrayal sting all the more bitterly. He knew now that Dutch was only human, someone who could be swayed by manipulative words, someone who could lead his family to ruin. Someone with flaws, and many of them. He wasn’t so different from the rest of the gang, from the average American, or indeed from the average criminal, no matter his lofty ideas of his own station. And yet, Arthur still loved him, even if he didn’t trust him or forgive any of the things he’d done. Probably because, as Arthur knew very well, he was a fool. But he always had been, so he wasn’t sure what had changed.

Because something had. Something was different between them, more than just the tension that had been caused by Arthur’s hostility. It’d started with that, though, with Arthur coming back and being uncharacteristically cold to Dutch. And instead of passing it off as a symptom of Arthur’s growing disloyalty, as Dutch had been prone to do, something about the suddenness or the intensity of Arthur’s vitriol had shocked him. Dutch had made an effort. To reconnect, or to rebuild the parts of their relationship that had broken over time, or something. Maybe it was because he wasn’t yet too far gone, as Arthur had feared. Then, over the course of their trip, something had changed again. It was almost like Dutch was… seeing him differently.

Pondering it all was an act of foolishness, though. He couldn’t risk it. Dutch was still the same person as the one who’d abandoned him, after all. He hadn’t yet, of course, but Arthur now knew the lengths Dutch would go to fulfill his own selfish desires. The willingness Dutch had to throw away everything between them, all them years.

Maybe, though, part of him whispered, it wasn’t not too late for him. Maybe you were sent back to fix it all, to change Dutch’s mind and help him become someone who’d prioritize the wellbeing of his family over the ideal he’d tricked himself into believing was real. Someone who’d accept change in order to keep his family alive. Someone who wouldn’t leave his friend of twenty years to die alone, beaten bloody and barely able to breathe.

Arthur’s musings only became more incoherent and circular from that point. He was finally beginning to tire, exhaustion pulling him toward a sleep which he hoped would remain free of nightmares this time, when his muddled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Dutch turning over fitfully in the tent next to him. A few moments passed, and then the older man did it again. It was then that the shivering started, Dutch’s teeth chattering faintly as he tossed and turned. Arthur was awake again, staring at the fabric of the tent above him and internally cursing the other man’s lack of foresight. Sure, they were out of the snow by Cattail Pond, but the temperature had dropped significantly as the sun had dipped below the horizon, and Dutch should have expected that. Arthur would be getting no sleep tonight again, on account of Dutch’s foolishness.

He paused. Glanced over in the direction of Dutch’s tent. Pursed his lips.

Well. There was another option. He wasn’t particularly fond of it, but after days of waking up early and sneaking in late, plus the nightmares that had plagued him yesterday, Arthur was on his last legs. He needed a good night’s sleep. Dutch likely did, too, considering the stress from the past couple of days.

Arthur heaved a sigh. He crawled out of his bedroll, gathered it up along with his extra blankets, and left his tent. The cold air sliced easily through the thin material of his union suit. He shivered, whatever warmth he had accumulated from curling up underneath his blankets dissipating almost immediately. Quickly, he stumbled over to Dutch’s tent in the dark, brushing aside the flap.

Dutch was huddled under his thin blankets, shivers wracking his entire frame. He’d propped himself up on his elbows upon hearing Arthur’s footsteps outside, levelling the other man with a questioning look. Arthur scowled.

“You’re keeping me up with your goddamn shivering. Move over, it’ll be warmer if we share a tent.”

“Oh,” Dutch said sheepishly. “I apologize. I —”

“Didn’t pack extra blankets, like the forgetful old man you are, yeah, I got it.” Arthur rolled his eyes, dumping his bedroll and blankets unceremoniously on the ground. As an afterthought, he threw one of his blankets over to Dutch.

“Thank you,” Dutch said, his face shifting into something unfamiliar that made Arthur’s heart pound faster in his chest.

Arthur grunted in response, crawling back into his bedroll and adjusting the blanket around him. They fell into silence. Dutch continued shivering for a few minutes, but their collective body heat gradually warmed the interior of the tent.

“I don’t, you know,” Dutch said quietly, just when Arthur was beginning to fall asleep again.

“Mmh?”

“I don’t see you as just a gun, or as some sort of — some hired killer. You’re my — well. I would say you’re like a son to me, but you’re… it’s not — you’re more than that.”

Arthur turned his head to look at Dutch, who was once again fixing him with that intense gaze that made his insides squirm. He’d heard the words before, but they were less rehearsed now, more raw and real in a way that warmed him from the inside out. “I know,” he said, and surprised himself with the honesty of his statement.

“And I’m sorry for my actions, that they’ve made you feel that way. And that I’ve made you feel like I’ve stopped trusting you. You’re important to me, Arthur. I don’t know what I’d do without you or Hosea.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. Dutch was good at apologizing without really apologizing, the words always well-meaning but insincere at best. He’d never liked admitting that he was in the wrong. And here he was. Apologizing, explicitly and clearly uttering the words ‘I’m sorry’.

They stared at each other for a few more moments, Arthur’s face heating slightly under Dutch’s stare. “It’s…” he trailed off. It wasn’t really fine, the betrayal of Dutch’s trust and the shattering of their relationship still a pain that dug into his chest so fiercely it made his eyes sting at times. But Dutch didn’t know the half of it, and it wasn’t like Arthur could enlighten him. “I ain’t gonna lie and say it’s fine, Dutch, ’cos it ain’t. Still hurts. But you putting it into words… well, I appreciate it.”

Dutch’s eyes went soft around the edges. He reached out and laid his hand on Arthur’s. “I’m glad.”

The air between them was charged with tension again. Arthur felt almost like a puppet on strings, drawn inexorably to Dutch in the dimness. Half drunk on the suddenly feverish warmth of the other man’s presence, he considered briefly the thought that, out in the middle of nowhere and under the cover of darkness, who would ever know or remember if he made a move? It was irrational and stupid, and in the back of his mind the knowledge of what Dutch had done weighed heavily on him, but oh did Arthur _want_.

Arthur wet his lips and watched in fascination as Dutch’s eyes followed the movement. “Arthur…” Dutch breathed, barely a whisper.

And then — 

The thundering of hooves on the ground. A pained scream, cutting through the quiet. A thud.

They reacted immediately to the potential threat, springing up from their bedrolls with a practiced ease borne from years of being on the run. Arthur cursed when he reached for his gun belt and weapons, which, of course, he’d left in his own tent. He hadn’t thought he would need them, had thought they were safe. He should have been more prepared.

Dutch left first, seeing as he was armed, brushing aside the flap of his tent with the barrel of his revolver before warily edging outside. Whatever he saw had him relaxing, but only slightly.

Arthur peered around Dutch’s shoulder, trying to discern what had happened. As Dutch stepped farther out of his tent, Arthur followed, and the scene before them became clear.

There was a spooked horse near the edge of the clearing, rearing and tossing its head agitatedly. Something about its flaxen roan coat was strangely familiar to Arthur. It wasn’t until his eyes fell onto the figure collapsed on the ground that he realized why.

“Kieran?”

His heart was suddenly pounding in his ears. Before he knew it, Arthur was across the clearing, cold seeping through the fabric of his union suit as he knelt beside the crumpled form. He turned him over onto his back, mouth going dry at the blood. God. Wasn’t too much of it, though, not enough yet for it to be truly bad. Arthur pushed aside the thick black coat, the kid groaning feebly as Arthur accidentally jostled his arm while trying to see what the damage was. Bullet wound to the arm. Judging by the amount of blood, the bullet was still inside. It would likely take them all night and into tomorrow to get back to Colter, if they rode hard, and who knew how long it’d been since he’d gotten the wound. Better to disinfect it, take out the bullet, cauterize it right there so the kid wouldn’t lose too much blood on the way back.

Well, first things first. “Gimme your hunting knife, gotta cut his shirt off at the shoulder. Nasty wound,” Arthur said, extending a hand in Dutch’s direction. When he was met with silence, he turned and scowled at the man, who was hovering a few steps away. “Well?” he prompted, “In case you didn’t notice, it’s kinda urgent.”

Dutch looked at him as if he was insane. Arthur didn’t understand why for a moment, and then he realized and he nearly smacked himself for his stupidity.

“Arthur,” Dutch said slowly. “Look at him, look at what he’s wearing. He’s an O’Driscoll.”

How could he have forgotten? The black coat, the signature green bandana. And Arthur had gone and called him by name in front of Dutch, who was now regarding him with confusion. Arthur did smack himself this time, undoubtedly leaving sticky, bloody smears over his face.

Dutch approached almost casually, as if there wasn’t an injured man on the ground in front of them. This was it, Arthur realized. The suspicion, the wariness. This was the moment when it would all return.

“Arthur,” Dutch said again, carefully. Arthur forced himself to look up at Dutch, bracing for the inevitability of the other man’s mistrust. His eyes darted across Dutch’s face, taking in his expression. Brow furrowed in concern, brown eyes assessing but calm, mouth pulled into a vague frown. “How do you know this man?”

And Arthur… didn’t hear it. The doubting. The edge of anger, bordering on fury at a perceived betrayal. There was just the question.

“He saved me,” Arthur blurted out the first thing that came to mind, which had been, unfortunately, the truth. “An O’Driscoll got the drop on me and he shot ’im, and now he’s—” 

_A memory: blood dripping from the severed neck of a brutalized head, eye sockets emptied and gored, a victim of unspeakable violence whose absence had gone entirely unheeded by a gang that barely cared._

“— I owe him my life, now please, help me save his.”

Arthur knew he looked a mess, kneeling beside someone he’d failed to save, still in his union suit with blood on his face and hands and hair. Pleading. Last time he’d asked Dutch to help him save people — John and Abigail and Eagle Flies — he’d been met with staunch refusal each time, and the rejection had torn into him like a knife to the gut. Part of him feared he’d be met with the same again.

Dutch dropped to his knees beside him, handing over his hunting knife. “What do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I set up the sharing-a-tent scenario and I had to follow through lol
> 
> Life is getting pretty busy, so I'm not sure how much I'll be able to write in the near future. Might take a while to get the next chapter up, but I'll try my best!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return! And school didn't even delay this chapter as much as I thought it would have, which is great!
> 
> This chapter was kind of a bitch to write lmao, every time I went back to "proofread" it, I would find something to rewrite entirely or add, so now I'm just posting it before I drive myself insane. Anyways, hope you enjoy! <3

Kieran managed not to die of blood loss or infection, though not for lack of trying on his part. As it turned out, the bullet had broken the bone in Kieran’s arm, so it had to be set and splinted upon their return to Colter. Arthur was endlessly grateful to Susan and the Reverend, who had pulled a long night in particular tending to the kid as he’d fought the fever of infection, even if they’d only done so because they didn’t know Kieran’s true history. To them, he was just another lost soul Dutch and Arthur had come across in their travels.

It had been Dutch’s idea, to throw away the green bandanna and pretend that he wasn’t an O’Driscoll. “It’ll make explaining easier,” Dutch had said, “and besides, he won’t be staying long enough to cause us problems when he recovers.” He’d added the latter with a stern glance in Arthur’s direction, but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to be resentful. He figured Kieran was probably better off staying away from their gang, anyways, judging by what had happened to him last time. Maybe this time, Arthur could make sure to give him some money and he could make a life for himself without the O’Driscolls finding out he’d ever been with the Van der Lindes.

During the ride back, Dutch prodded for more details on how Arthur and Kieran had met, but, not knowing what to say, Arthur just carefully skirted around the topic, supplying Dutch with only the basics of what had happened. Perhaps Dutch could read his lingering grief over Kieran’s death, or at least perceive that it was a rather sensitive issue, because he stopped inquiring rather quickly, which Arthur was grateful for. What surprised Arthur was Dutch’s lack of suspicion at Arthur’s caginess, although perhaps that wasn’t too much of a surprise; maybe Arthur had gotten used to Dutch’s mistrust and forgotten just how much Dutch used to trust him when things between them were good.

Of course, Arthur hadn’t stopped being angry at Dutch, the betrayal from before still a fresh wound that throbbed from time to time. But he had found himself enjoying Dutch’s company perhaps more than he should have during their trip. He didn’t forget everything that Dutch had done, but it got more and more difficult to deny that he _wanted_ to. Arthur was becoming more and more accustomed to this version of Dutch, the one from before everything went to shit. It was familiar, reminding him of better times, but different all the same.

He told himself it was only different because he now knew Dutch in a way he didn’t before, could see more clearly the cracks in his composure, the fraying edges of his sanity, and the way the pressure of his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. But… that wasn’t exactly true. Their hunting trip had done wonders in helping Dutch to get away from the stress of it all for a couple days, and the result was that Dutch was more relaxed, calmer. He acted like he hadn’t since before Blackwater, hell, since before they’d picked up goddamn Micah even. Dutch was acting more like himself than he had in months. So really the difference was that Arthur was a fool who let his feelings tangle his thoughts hopelessly into knots and he was most definitely seeing things that he certainly shouldn’t be allowing himself to read into. The more he dwelled on such things, the more and more they twisted up in his chest, so he tried not to let his thoughts linger too much.

The snow had thawed enough to travel by the day Arthur and Dutch brought Kieran back, but tending to the boy’s injury had delayed their departure to the Heartlands. Kieran had yet to wake by the time they did leave, but Dutch and Hosea thought it prudent to move on before the weather got bad again, even if it meant doing so right when Kieran had only just barely escaped death.

Arthur had been doing a lot of thinking, in the past couple of days. It hadn’t been clear to him at first why or how the boy had gotten injured, until he recalled that the day he and Dutch had spent hunting was probably the same one that the O’Driscolls had chosen to rob that Cornwall train. And, if Arthur’s memory was correct, the spot they’d planned on setting the dynamite was kind of close to Cattail Pond. He assumed Kieran had taken part in the robbery, gotten injured, then had somehow gotten away. And then, coincidence of all coincidences, his horse had carried him right to Arthur and Dutch’s campsite.

It was a sobering reminder to Arthur of the unforeseeable consequences of his own actions. He hadn’t even intended to keep Dutch from finding out about the train score and stealing it, he’d simply acted upon his knowledge of where Sadie had been kept last time. But the chain of events had unfolded, and in a way that, terrifyingly, had almost killed someone Arthur had vowed to spare from a violent demise this time. It made him nervous, because what else would be drastically different as a result of his ignorant but well-meaning choice? If he was to continue changing things, would the consequences only grow more catastrophic? Arthur was between a rock and a hard place; he couldn’t _not_ change anything, because he knew where that would lead them, but he had to tread carefully, because he hadn’t realized until Kieran that he could simply make everything worse. Admittedly, it was difficult to imagine a fate worse than what he’d already lived through, but the possibility was there nonetheless, and he was afraid that he’d already triggered it unwittingly.

And now there was the issue of the extra day they’d spent in Colter, waiting for Kieran to recover well enough to be transported. Would _that_ result in some momentous change, too? Arthur didn’t think so, considering the gang had spent a couple weeks after Colter settling into their new camp, and as far as he recalled, nothing too significant had happened in that time. So it wasn’t like their additional time at Colter would cut into any major events. But could he say for sure that that one day wouldn’t make any difference?

He finished writing and frowned down at his own inner monologue, staring right back at him from the pages of his journal. It was the day after they’d arrived in Horseshoe Overlook, and also the first time Arthur had thought to pen down his recent experiences. Opening his journal to see blank pages he remembered filling once before was jarring, but he supposed it was poetic enough. After all, this was a fresh start, so to speak. Arthur had then proceeded to write so much that his pencil had grown dull twice and his wrist started aching, his cursive growing messier alongside his thoughts as he filled page after page with his confused musings.

Now, looking down at his recounting of what had happened recently and thinking about all he had done and all he had to do, Arthur came to the realization that it might be wise to organize his thoughts a little more. He made a list.

  * _Save everyone : Hosea, Lenny, Sean, Susan, Eagle Flies_
  * _Help Mr. + Mrs. Downes._



He paused, remembering the other folk he’d met last time, some of whom might not have made it without him. Some of whom _hadn’t_ made it, he thought, thinking bitterly of Hamish. He’d need to make sure to help them again.

  * _Other folk needing help: Rains Fall + Wapiti. Capt. Monroe. Hamish. Charlotte Balfour. Albert Mason. Brother Dorkins + Sister Calderon. Charles Châtenay. That young Braithwaite and Gray couple, Penelope + Beau. German family. Mr. Black + Mr. White._



That was pretty comprehensive, he thought. There were others, of course, but their requests had not been of a potentially life-threatening nature, as far as he was aware. Well, maybe it would do him well to write them down anyway — they were good, (mostly) honest money-making opportunities, and if Arthur was going to somehow get the gang away from the outlaw life, they’d probably need as much money as he could get. All those treasures he’d hunted down and the gold bars he’d found last time would really come in handy, too.

  * _Folk to help for money: Levin + Boy Calloway. Cigarette card collector. Algernon Wasp, fancy exotics. Lady + dinosaur bones. Gill, fisherman. Feller with birthmark + rock carvings._



Arthur paused, his pencil skidding to an abrupt halt on the page and extending his period into a sharp line. Something about that was oddly familiar, or maybe important. There had been something with that feller, hadn’t there? That redhead with the oddly shaped birthmark. Arthur had sent him all the rock carving locations, but when he’d come back, there was a woman. And a baby. With the same birthmark and name… 

Shit, he hadn’t really put too much thought into the bizarre situation last time, passing it off as something much too complicated for him to bother getting more involved in. In fact, the possibility of time travel hadn’t even really occurred to him until it, or something similar, had happened to him. Whatever the man had done had something to do with those carvings, Arthur knew, recalling some sort of drawing put together in the feller’s (Francis Sinclair, wasn’t it?) cabin. Somehow, he’d managed to intentionally travel through time, with whatever knowledge had come with the pictures. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on Arthur’s situation.

Pleased at his realization, Arthur snapped his journal shut and stood with a stretch. He’d spent the better part of the day writing, and although he was overdue a well-deserved break, he still felt vaguely guilty seeing everyone else hard at work. He’d take a trip, dig up some of those gold bars he remembered from before to help the camp, and pay Francis Sinclair a visit while he was at it.

* * *

It was a day later that Arthur arrived at Hawks Eye Cabin. Francis Sinclair was where Arthur remembered him to be when they first met, fidgeting anxiously on the steps in front of the hut. His eyes lit up when Arthur approached. 

“Well what’s eating you, partner?” he asked, a forced cheerfulness about him.

“Eating me?” Arthur repeated instinctively, still taken aback at the strange turn of phrase even though he’d already heard it. He shook his head. “Nevermind that. Francis Sinclair?”

The redhead paused, shocked. “Yes? You… know me?” The forced cheerfulness had turned into caution, something calculating in his eyes. So there was something underneath his facade of lunacy after all, Arthur noted.

Arthur nodded. “In a way, I s’pose. Listen, Mr. Sinclair, I have a little bit of a situation that I was hoping you could shed some light on. I know you’re lookin’ for those rock carvings, just like I know that a Mrs. Sinclair with a baby boy by the name of Francis is currently living here.”

Francis went pale, paler than he already was, and his caution became grim. His eyes darted nervously at the woods around them. “Ah. Well. Let’s… discuss this inside, shall we, sport?”

Arthur shrugged, gesturing a hand toward the building. “Lead the way.”

The interior of the cabin was the same as Arthur remembered, minus the drawings that had been hung on the back wall. Mrs. Sinclair was out, which was probably a good thing, as he didn’t think she’d known about the whole time-travelling thing. Arthur shifted his weight awkwardly while Francis puttered around, taking out a kettle and two cups. “Noodle juice, partner? I mean, tea?” the other man asked with a strained smile. “Or, I suppose you might be more of a coffee person. Either way, all I have is tea, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do.” He noticed Arthur hovering near the door and added, “Please, sit,” gesturing towards the small table near the middle of the room.

He did, and, a few moments later, Francis placed a gently steaming cup in front of him before sliding into the chair opposite Arthur, holding his own mug. “So,” the other man said, the calculating glint back in his eyes, “I must admit, I’m at a little bit of a disadvantage here. You know me, but I don’t know you, partner.”

“Arthur Morgan.” Arthur had never been a huge fan of tea, but it was probably a good idea to show a little bit of trust in the man’s hospitality, given the way Arthur had introduced himself rather unceremoniously. He picked up the cup and took a sip.

Francis placed his cup down and leaned his elbows onto the table, steepling his fingers. “Alright then, Mr. Morgan. Before we discuss the situation you mentioned, may I ask how you’ve come to know of me?”

“Actually, I don’t just know _of_ you. We’ve met. Kinda. It was… a different time, I suppose, is the best way to describe it. Thing is, I think you and I might have suffered a similar… experience.”

The redhead’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it was clearly not what Arthur said. “Go on…”

So Arthur continued, “We originally met same as we just did, only I didn’t know you before. And you asked me to find some rock carvings, said you were ‘lost’ and needed them for something. Said a buncha nonsense along with it. Honestly, I thought you were drunk or crazy, or both, but you promised to pay and I needed the money. I found ’em, posted you the locations, and you invited me back here, only I guess I got here too late, ’cos you were gone and I met a Mrs. Sinclair and… you again, only this time you was a baby.” He paused, took another sip of his tea. God, he wished it was beer. Or whiskey. His head was starting to hurt just thinking about the whole thing. “That make any sense?”

Francis nodded slowly. “A little, yes. Does this have to do with your… situation?”

“Yeah. After you… left, I went and died. Then I woke up again, a couple weeks ago, and it was like none of it happened.”

“Hmm. And you’re sure you didn’t simply have… an extremely accurate prophetic vision or some sort?”

Arthur thought of the rattling in his chest, the pain that lanced through his entire body whenever he coughed, the sharp agony of Micah’s knuckles slamming into his face again and again and again and squeezing around his neck until he couldn’t breathe. His throat tightened.

“Pretty sure,” he said gruffly.

Francis frowned, tapping his foot on one of the table legs. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Well,” he finally said. “That’s fascinating. Yes, quite fascinating indeed.”

“What is?”

“Alright, you see, sport, there’s a difference between us. I got here entirely on purpose. Or — well, actually that’s not true, there was a mishap involved and I ended up not quite where or when I thought I would, but I intended to travel through time in some manner, and you, clearly, didn’t.”

Arthur didn’t see where this was going. “Okay?”

“Which means that, while I know exactly what was behind my instance of time travel, I have absolutely no clue what in the world could have caused yours.”

So Francis was of no use to him. That was just great.

Francis must have seen Arthur’s disappointment and annoyance, because he quickly added, “I can, however, offer a few theories.”

Privately, Arthur didn’t think theories would do him any good, but he supposed they wouldn’t hurt. “Sure, let’s hear ’em.”

“Well, there are two possibilities I can think of that may have caused you to spontaneously time travel. One is that a freak scientific accident occurred, and the other one is that a freak supernatural event did.”

Arthur opened his mouth, about to instinctively respond with disbelief at the ridiculous ‘theories’. Then he remembered that buck that had appeared in his dreams in the last few months of his life, always watching him. Sometimes, almost… beckoning him somewhere. He’d thought, at the time, it was to his death, or the afterlife, or something like that, but… Arthur’s mouth shut. Perhaps a ‘supernatural event’ wasn’t as far-fetched as he’d thought, though he supposed he should have been more open to the possibility, having literally time travelled, after all.

“... You might be onto something.” Francis gave him a curious look, but Arthur continued hastily, not exactly wanting to elaborate on some spirit buck from his dreams. “Anyway, I appreciate the theories, but they don’t help me much with my situation. No offence intended.”

Francis nodded, lips pursed. “None taken, sport, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Arthur waved him off. Sure, he was a little disappointed at the dead end, but it wasn’t like it was Francis’ fault. “’S fine, I s’pose I’ll have to figure it out on my own. Thanks for entertainin’ me. And for the uh… _noodle juice_.” He raised his mug in Francis’ direction and downed the rest of his now slightly lukewarm tea before standing.

“Wait, hold on,” Francis added quickly before Arthur could leave, making Arthur pause. “I feel I should offer some advice, one time-traveller to another. As a courtesy.”

Well, what the hell, it wasn’t like Arthur knew anything about the topic. “Sure.”

“Speaking from experience, I’ve always enforced very strict rules. I’m not to interact with too much or, heaven forbid, tell anyone anything about the future, in the hopes of minimizing my impact on future events.”

“Why’d you ask me to find them carvings last time, then?”

Francis laughed sharply. “Partner, I’m stuck here, in 1899, with only the most basic means of getting back to where I’m supposed to be, and I’m not exactly equipped to go hunting for rock carvings lest I get killed by outlaws or wild animals. Sometimes rules are meant to be bent.”

“So you decided to ask an outlaw to find rock carvings for you, out of fear of getting yourself killed by… other outlaws,” Arthur deadpanned.

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you are?” He shook his head, still smiling slightly. “Well, regardless, the gist of it is that it’s generally best to change as little as possible of the past.”

“Huh. But why exactly is it such a bad idea to tell anyone anything or avoid changing the future?”

“You’re joking, right?” Arthur gave Francis a look. What exactly about any of this implied he was joking? Francis shook his head, a little disbelievingly. “Right, I suppose you wouldn’t know. You see, there’s this term that gets coined I think what, 50 or 60 years from now, called the ‘butterfly effect’. It describes how a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a typhoon, and essentially it’s a concept that explains how predictability is limited. It’s impossible to say if changing one thing will make things worse or better and by how much, so it’s less risky to just not try. And, as you can expect, telling someone about future events increases the risk that they, too, will take action to change the future, and that just makes it even more impossible than it already is to predict the outcome.”

Arthur winced. “Yeah, that… makes a lot of sense.”

Francis stared at Arthur’s expression and his face dropped into his hands. “You’ve… already told someone else, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Nah, I haven’t told anyone. ’Sides you, that is. But I did… change things. Kind of a lot. But to be fair,” Arthur added, a little defensively when Francis gave him a reproachful glance, “it wasn’t like I knew what I was doin’.” He paused. “How… how bad can it get?”

The redhead let out a long-suffering sigh, hand rubbing over his face. “I suppose, technically speaking, changing the past doesn’t always mean negative outcomes for the future, it just means that positive outcomes are far from guaranteed. I’ve more often seen and heard of the former, though. Someone I knew went back in time to save her partner from being killed, it was in some sort of family feud that started before she was even born. And when she came back to her time, her partner was gone. Somehow, her meddling had made it so she never existed, and nobody has any clue how it happened. Changing things… it’s a dangerous business, partner.”

“Jesus…” Arthur said. “Never existed? That’s… I can’t even begin to imagine that. And I thought I’d already seen how bad things can turn out.”

Francis looked equally grim at his words. “Yes,” he agreed quietly, “I thought I did, too. Until I heard her story. That’s the worst one I know of, but probably not the worst one out there.”

The two of them fell silent, Francis looking decidedly grim. Arthur wondered at what sort of ghosts weighed Francis down, and how long they’d been haunting him. He looked outside at the midday sun, back down at Francis, and decided that, this time, he’d take the chance to find out.

He sat down again. “So, if it isn’t breaking any of your rules, tell me a little more about how you ended up here?”

Francis glanced up at him, shocked at first, and then a sort of confused wonder dawned on his face. It must have been lonely for him, Arthur realized, to jump through time and not be allowed to ever interact with anyone. He wondered if this was the first time the other man had ever allowed himself to be, well, himself. “Seeing as I’ve already bent enough rules,” Francis said with a laugh, “I suppose I couldn’t do much more harm. Of course, old sport, I can’t tell you anything _too_ important, you understand. It all started when I got utterly spifflicated, just completely zozzled…”

* * *

Arthur spent around a week and a half after his visit to Francis riding around and raiding the various treasure stashes he remembered from his previous explorations. The gold bars in Limpany, the broken train car near Cotorra Springs, and in the creepy statue cave. The treasures from that feller he’d had to rob last time, the Jack Hall Gang, the map he’d found when he went to find Flaco Hernandez for that writer, and the map he’d found in that obelisk west of Owanjila. All in all, it had been quite the productive trip, and he was pleased with himself as he rode back to Horseshoe Overlook. He wouldn’t give the camp all of his findings at once, as it would be hard to explain how he’d found so many gold bars in such a short amount of time, so he buried most of them in a lockbox behind one of the buildings in Limpany for safekeeping. He’d turn in two and tell everyone that he’d followed a treasure map he’d taken off someone. It seemed plausible.

As Arthur drew nearer to camp, he was eagerly looking forward to sleeping in his own cot for the first time in weeks. He was exhausted in the way that he usually was after spending a while away from the rest of the gang chasing down leads, and Khione would appreciate an extended period of rest as well.

“We’re almost there, girl,” he soothed the horse as she threw her head and whinnied, a little annoyed at the weight of the two turkeys she was carrying. He’d brought them down near the Dakota to bring back to Pearson. Usually, he’d be worried that the gang (namely, Miss Grimshaw and Dutch) would be irritated at his long absence, but with all he’d done this time, he was optimistic that he would receive a favourable response, at least when he donated the gold to the box. His spirits were high as he broke into the sunny clearing, lips pulling up into a fond smile at the familiar sight of the gang bustling about, hard at work as always.

His smile quickly faded as Dutch started marching towards him before Arthur could even reach the hitching posts, face arranged into an expression of quiet fury. It was clear that he had been waiting for Arthur, and, judging by the intensity of his anger, he had been kept waiting for far too long.

Arthur froze like a caught animal. Dutch announced, with enough false cheer to make Arthur’s teeth ache, “Arthur! I was wondering when you’d get back. I sent Javier out to find you, but he didn’t have much luck. You’ve been all over half the damn country, it seems. Our friend Mister Duffy woke while you were gone, and he told me some… fascinating details about how the two of you met.”

Arthur was confused, and then, in a moment of sudden, blinding, nauseating clarity, he wasn’t. _Oh, shit._

“Charles, help Arthur out and give these to Pearson, would you?” Dutch beckoned the other man over and gestured at the turkeys, Charles silently complying even while he gave Arthur a worried glance. Dutch mounted The Count and looked over his shoulder at Arthur, eyes dark and furious even while his voice maintained a veneer of casual friendliness. “Ride with me, Arthur. I think the two of us need to have a nice long chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say I just think that Francis Sinclair is neat
> 
> It doesn't help that he comes from the era of The Great Gatsby and I fell in love with that book when we read it in high school but uhh that's beside the point. See y'all next chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was a bit of a delay, this chapter was even more difficult to write than the previous one aa a a
> 
> Not sure if I'm happy with it still so I might go back and change some things later, idk

They rode a little ways north of the camp, Dutch slowing to a stop near the remnants of a bushfire. He dismounted, Arthur following his lead, and they left their horses to continue on foot to a slight ledge. Arthur wondered briefly if Dutch was about to kill him; if he was, they were at a decent place for the deed, away from the main trails, if a little open on account of all the burnt trees. Rationally, though, it was unlikely. Dutch wouldn’t kill him directly. No, that had been too extreme even for a Dutch half-crazed with grief and desperation. It was more probable that, just like before, he’d wait for an opportunity to leave Arthur for dead, let someone or something else do the dirty work so he could pretend later on that he had no choice, it had been a bad situation, or whatever other platitude allowed him to live with his actions.

Shockingly enough, the thought wasn’t exactly comforting.

Dutch stopped near the edge, staring off into the distance as if gathering his thoughts, shoulders tense. Arthur felt his own draw up defensively, bracing himself for the inevitable tirade.

They stood in silence for several moments, the only sound between them their breathing. Then Dutch looked over at him, expression still sharp with muted anger. There was an edge of confusion there, too, as if he didn’t know what to make of the situation, and that gave Arthur some hope that he might still be able to salvage this goddamn mess.

Finally, Dutch spoke.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” he said. “When I questioned him, there was no doubt that his name was Kieran Duffy, which is what you told me. But he claimed he’d never met you before, much less saved you from another O’Driscoll. So, Arthur, how did it come to be that you know an O’Driscoll who doesn’t know you? Why the hell did you come up with that whole story to save the life of someone you’ve never met?” And Arthur could hear it, the last, unspoken question between them: _When did you get so good at lying to me?_

“I, uh… maybe he… forgot,” Arthur muttered, glancing away from Dutch and wincing at the weakness of his statement.

Dutch closed his eyes briefly to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Inhaled. Exhaled. Opened his eyes again to keep giving Arthur that withering glare, as if Arthur was a young man again who had been caught starting yet another bar fight. Only now Arthur was thirty-six and keeping potentially dangerous secrets. “Right. He forgot. I don’t think you want to be trying my patience, Arthur,” Dutch spat, growing increasingly agitated.

Now, this was the problem: Arthur wasn’t good at lying. Hiding things, sure, but not lying. Not to Dutch, or at least not to a Dutch who was directing his full attention to catching Arthur in said lie. The only reason he’d been believable when telling his story about Kieran was because he had been telling the truth, for the most part. And even if he was great at lying to Dutch, the point still stood that he had no idea what he could say that would not only sound convincing but would also alleviate the situation. Sure, he could claim that he’d been doing scores with O’Driscolls or something along those lines, but there was no way Dutch would buy that — Arthur despised Colm’s gang almost as much as Dutch did. In fact, he felt a little disgusted at the very thought of uttering the lie. On top of that, even if Dutch did believe him, it wouldn’t solve any problems; the other man would only become more incensed that Arthur was going behind his back and running jobs alongside a gang with whom they had a decades-long blood feud. And that could lead to Arthur getting expelled from the gang or worse.

But it wasn’t like he could tell Dutch the truth. He wouldn’t believe _that_ either. Besides, it was risky, as Francis had warned him; who knew what Dutch would do with information on what would happen in the future? Would he even care that the gang fell apart and that Arthur had died essentially by his hand? Or would he deny even more that he’d made any mistakes and keep the gang going toward inevitable doom in the name of fulfilling his vision, making it that much harder for Arthur to stop him?

“Arthur?” Dutch took another step closer, frustration clear in his voice and the sharp frown of his mouth. Arthur was taking too long. He couldn’t think, Dutch’s suspicion and anger clear reflections of the man he had ended up becoming last time, making Arthur almost sick to the stomach.

Perhaps Dutch could read the conflict and distress in Arthur’s face because his fury softened a little around the edges. He placed a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur tensed, fighting the urge to pull away on instinct. Maybe Dutch had intended for it to be a grounding or comforting gesture, but the weight of his hand only served to heighten Arthur’s panic. “Arthur,” Dutch said again, a touch of weariness and concern making itself known in his voice. “Tell me what’s going on. I might get mad, but… you know I’ll forgive anything you’ve done, right?”

“I can’t,” Arthur said, shaking his head and hoping that Dutch would decide to leave him alone about it. Knowing that he wouldn’t. “It’s… you wouldn’t believe me. It’s too dangerous.”

Sure enough, Dutch pressed on. “Whatever it is, Arthur, we can handle it together. I just need you to tell me the truth.”

Dread twisted around in his chest. Arthur swallowed thickly. He didn’t see that he had much of a choice. Maybe Dutch would think he was crazy and leave him to his own business, he didn’t know, but he’d been caught in a foolish lie that he still couldn’t quite bring himself to regret, given that it’d saved Kieran’s life, and he didn’t see any way out of the situation without telling Dutch at least a little bit of the truth and hoping for the best.

Arthur heaved a shaky sigh and mentally uttered a silent apology to Francis. It seemed as though he would be defying more of his recommendations sooner than he’d thought. “I think… it might be best if we sit down for this.”

Dutch’s eyebrows furrowed even further. “If you say so,” he said slowly, taking his hand off Arthur’s shoulder and lowering himself onto the scorched earth.

Arthur hesitated before doing the same, assuming a cross-legged position before closing his eyes in a futile attempt to gather his thoughts. He scowled vaguely in concentration, scratching at his beard, still thinking. Then, after almost too much time had passed, he opened his eyes and met Dutch’s, steeling himself for what he was about to say. “Well, first of all, I’m gonna say some things that you won’t believe, and I hardly believe ’em myself, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t interrupt me ’till I’m done.” He waited for Dutch to nod in agreement before continuing, dropping the proverbial bombshell. “I’m actually from… a couple of months in the future. I closed my eyes somewhere in the Grizzlies and then I woke up in Colter. You remember when I passed out? That was me uh, ‘returning’, is as good a word as any to describe it, I suppose. I’ve lived this before. At least, sort of. And I know Kieran ’cos we met last time; he was an O’Driscoll, sure, but he only joined up with them in the first place to survive. He ain’t like ’em and he ain’t a bad feller, and he really did save my sorry ass exactly as I told you before, only I didn’t get to return the favour then. That’s the honest-to-God truth. I know it sounds crazy, hell, it _is_ crazy, but I swear to you I ain’t going crazy, and I ain’t drunk neither. I don’t have the slightest goddamn clue how any of it is possible, but it’s what happened.”

Dutch blinked once. Then twice. He stared at Arthur, then stared some more. Arthur hunched his shoulders slightly, trying not to squirm under Dutch’s inscrutable gaze. He grew even tenser as Dutch’s jaw clenched and the anger began seeping back into his posture, the other man suddenly seeming to loom with the viciousness of his fury.

_Shit._

“I cannot believe you, Arthur. If you were just going to lie to me again, I would have hoped you’d make it something believable, instead of wasting my time with this bullshit.”

“Dutch,” Arthur said, his voice rising with his desperation. Dutch made to stand and Arthur grabbed his wrist. “Dutch, come _on_.”

The other man yanked at his arm, nearly wrenching himself from Arthur’s grip, expression absolutely thunderous. “Let. Go.”

Really, Arthur should have expected this. He had, to an extent, but that didn’t mean he knew what to do when the anticipated ended up happening. “Dutch, please _,_ ” Arthur said again, on the verge of begging. “Just — would you _look at me_?” The sharpness of Arthur’s words must have gotten through to Dutch, somehow, because he did, dark eyes meeting Arthur’s gaze. “You’ve known me twenty years and you know I ain’t never been able to tell you a lie to save my goddamn life,” Arthur continued, voice dropping in pitch but not in intensity. “Look at me right now and tell me I’m lying.”

There was a fragile moment where everything between them hung in the balance like spiderwebs, endlessly entangled and barely perceptible in the light. Arthur’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, so loudly that he almost believed Dutch must have been able to hear it, too. He watched as Dutch’s eyes darted, scanning over his face, looking. Searching. Arthur didn’t know what for, but he held his breath, hoping that he would find it. Then Dutch sighed, the fight leaving his shoulders along with his breath, and sank back down to the ground, the hand that wasn’t trapped in Arthur’s desperate grasp reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes.

“God help me, I believe you. At the very least, I believe that _you_ believe the nonsense you just said to me.”

Arthur’s relief was palpable, his lungs emptying in a huge whoosh of air. He’d gotten Dutch to believe him, only he still wasn’t sure that was entirely a good thing. But at least Dutch was no longer about to storm off and do or say something that would make this whole situation even more of a disaster. “It ain’t nonsense, I can promise you that,” he said. “Only, I suppose I can’t exactly prove it.”

A pause. Then Dutch looked up from where he had been slumped over, fixing Arthur with a calculating look. “Actually,” he started slowly, an idea seeming to form in his head, “you might be able to.” He shifted forward slightly, leaning closer, and Arthur subconsciously mimicked the movement. “If you are from the future, as you claim, then you can tell me something that’s going to happen, something that’s impossible for you to know. And, if it ends up happening, then I’ll know you’re telling the truth.” He paused, then grimaced at himself, as if realizing he was actually entertaining Arthur and finding the idea of it baffling.

Arthur frowned, looking down at the grass and pondering Dutch’s proposal. He wanted to refuse, reluctant to give Dutch any _more_ information, but… it made a lot of sense, actually. He could tell Dutch something that was major enough for Arthur to remember correctly but minor enough that Dutch wouldn’t plan to change the event, then he would be able to assuage Dutch’s incredulity and, hopefully, convince Dutch to leave Arthur to his own business in the future. Arthur was uneasy with it, but he couldn’t just leave the man to stew in his paranoia regarding Arthur’s loyalty. After all, Arthur knew very well how _that_ would affect him.

“... That could work,” Arthur said eventually. He chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip. Nothing significant had happened last time until the day he’d gone into Valentine with Uncle and some of the girls, and that hadn’t been anything too relevant to the downfall of the gang, as far as he was aware. “Okay. Uh, in I think maybe a little less than two weeks from now. The Reverend’ll go missing, wandering off to Flatneck Station, south of camp, and I’ll have to bring the fool back. After that, Uncle and I’ll take a trip to Valentine with some of the girls — Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly. Uncle wanted to buy some things at the general store, I think. Mary-Beth finds out about… er… a train score. Tilly’ll get harassed by one of them Foreman boys she used to run with. Karen gets herself into trouble with some drunk feller in a hotel who’s beating on her. Then this feller — Jimmy Brooks — he’ll recognize me from Blackwater and I’ll have to chase after him to get him to shut his mouth. Only he nearly gets himself killed falling off a cliff trying to escape. After that, uh, Javier, Charles, and I’ll be in the saloon when Bill starts a bar fight. It gets nasty, I end up beating the shit out of this big feller, then once it’s all done, you show up, and you’ve somehow found Trelawny, who tells us news about where Sean’s bein’ kept. That’s what I remember happening that day.”

Throughout his nervous explanation, Dutch had listened with his forehead slightly creased, still looking a little stunned and disbelieving. At the mention of Sean, though, his eyebrows shot up. “Sean? You know where he is?”

Arthur nodded slowly, not liking where this was going. “Yeah… Trelawny found him, like I said. Bounty hunters got to him.”

Dutch frowned disapprovingly. “Well, where is he? And why haven’t you told me? We should go get him, if you’ve known all this time.”

Was he serious? Arthur actually laughed. “No.” Dutch looked astounded, and his dumbfounded expression nearly made Arthur laugh even more. “You want to know why I haven’t told you anything, besides the fact that I didn’t think you’d believe me? It’s because I know you, and I know you’d want to immediately start doing things differently, but that’s not what’s going to happen. Last time I changed things, it nearly got Kieran killed, so I ain’t changing anything anymore until I have to. We got Sean out just fine the way things went before, so I don’t see why we should risk getting him out any faster. ’Sides, slippery little bastard might not have been caught yet, for all I know he’s in goddamn Tahiti right now.”

Dutch was clearly upset, but he seemed to accept it after a moment of consideration, grudgingly leaning back a little under Arthur’s wary eyes. “Fine, if that’s what you think is best. But there’s really no other way for you to prove that you’re telling the truth until two weeks from now?” he pressed in a voice edged with impatience.

Arthur flushed. “Well ’scuse me for not remembering every tiny detail of my life,” he responded sarcastically. “Next time I get zapped back months into the past I’ll try to remember what outfit you chose to wear on any given day.”

The older man seemed to realize he had no other choice, choosing to ignore Arthur’s snark. “If that’s the only option, I suppose I’ll tag along with you and Uncle in a few weeks. Now, if you’ll let go of me, I think we should head back into camp before folk start worrying.” Dutch punctuated his statement with a pointed glance at where Arthur was still loosely holding his wrist.

Face growing even hotter, this time in embarrassment, Arthur coughed slightly and pulled his hand away as if he’d been scalded. “Right. Sorry. And…” he hesitated, still charged from the tension between them, but he had to acknowledge that this whole situation wasn’t exactly something that was easy to accept. Truly, he was grateful and a little astounded that Dutch had actually believed him. He knew that Dutch trusted him, at least at this point in time, but he was still shocked at the undeniable proof of it. “Thanks, I s’pose. I know this all sounds… crazy.”

Dutch shook his head disbelievingly as he stood, brushing the dead grass and twigs from his normally pristine dress pants. “You don’t say. I don’t know what’s crazier, your… _story_ , or me, for actually thinking it might be true.”

“I think the answer is that it’s me who’s craziest,” Arthur responded drily. Unexpectedly, Dutch reached his hand out to Arthur to help him up. At this point, his face would just remain permanently red, Arthur thought, even as he clasped Dutch’s calloused hand in his own and was pulled to his feet with more strength than he’d expected. The two of them started heading back towards their horses when a thought occurred to Arthur.

“By the way… about Kieran…”

“Right, our friend Mister Duffy. Don’t you worry, Arthur, I haven’t told anyone about his… past. I wanted to talk to you before I worried the rest of the camp, seeing as we already have enough to deal with as it is. And, I suppose, if you say he’s trustworthy, I’ll at least wait until we can prove your story one way or another before taking further action. Besides, I’d rather keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t go running back to Colm tattling about our location.”

Arthur was relieved. At least Kieran hadn’t been sent out to fend for himself with a broken arm or imprisoned by the gang again, as he’d feared. All in all, this was probably the best-case scenario for the kid. “That’s good. He’s real good with horses, not too bad at fishing neither. We’ll make use of him.”

Dutch gave him a considering look as they mounted their horses. “If you say so. You coming, Arthur?” he asked when Arthur’s gaze lingered too long in the direction of the road to Valentine.

“Nah,” Arthur said, waving Dutch off. “I think… well, I need to think. And, to be honest, you probably need some space, too, after… all of this. I’ll go for a ride.”

Dutch frowned. “You’ve been away from camp for ten days, Arthur. No shame in taking a break.”

Arthur forced a little smile. Dutch’s concern almost made things feel normal between them again, if it wasn’t for the lingering remnants of his temper buzzing in his fingertips. “I’ll be back tonight,” he said. “Won’t even do nothin’.”

His words seemed to reassure Dutch, who relaxed slightly and nodded. “Alright, I’ll make sure Pearson saves a bowl for you. See you tonight.”

Arthur gave Dutch a two-fingered salute as the older man spurred The Count into a trot and quickly vanished into the burned forest. Once he was sure Dutch was gone, he slumped in his saddle and sighed, burying his head in his hands and speaking out loud to Khione.

“What the hell have I done now, girl?”

His horse nickered, pawing at the ground. “Yeah… impatient, ain’tcha? Let’s get going then.” He kicked her into a relaxed trot and set off towards the rolling plains of the Heartlands, leaning back in the saddle and sinking into his thoughts.

What the hell had he done indeed? That was a stupid question, Arthur knew exactly what he’d done. But he didn’t see that he’d had much of a choice. If only he hadn’t told such an easily discovered lie, if only he’d thought ahead far enough to stick around near camp until Kieran had woken up so he could convince the kid to pretend like Arthur’s story was true. Of course only he would be given a second chance and not be able to do anything with it, on account of his constant fuck-ups.

Well, at the very least, he could still control what he told Dutch to make sure the man didn’t know enough of the future to change it himself. Maybe Dutch knowing would even give Arthur some leeway to do more to fix things without Dutch questioning him too much. After all, telling someone you knew for a fact that what they did would lead to inevitable ruin was a pretty surefire way to win an argument. But of course, Dutch being Dutch, that was nowhere near a guarantee.

Not to mention what Francis had told him: there was no way to predict the future, and the more changes he made the more everything became uncertain before him. So maybe this whole thing, telling Dutch, would turn out to be exactly the disaster he feared it would become. For all that he tried to tell himself he was still in control and still handling the situation, he felt more and more like he was drowning in waters too deep and vicious to swim in, yanked this way and that by the currents of whatever event he’d already foolishly put into motion. Maybe he’d squandered his control the moment he’d found Sadie in the cellar of the Adler Ranch, he didn’t know, but he knew he had to regain that control before things escalated even more against his will.

Before Arthur knew it, Khione was ambling through Twin Stack Pass and the sky was beginning to darken as the sun slid closer toward the horizon. Startled, he estimated that it was around 20:00 — probably about time to head back for supper. And to put those gold bars into the box, he thought, a little ruefully, remembering the weight in his satchel.

As he pulled on the reins to turn Khione around and back towards camp, he heard a familiar voice in the distance.

“Please… someone show kindness on a man with no sight…”

Right, it was that blind man he’d seen a couple times on his travels last time around. Well, why the hell not. Arthur had some spare coins, and the man had always been friendly, if a little strange. He rode Khione a little closer before dismounting and approaching the man on foot. The man must have heard, as he always did, as he turned wide, sightless eyes in Arthur’s direction, holding out his tin cup steadily in weathered hands. “Help a blind man,” he beseeched, in that peculiar way of his that sounded more like a serene request than a desperate plea.

“Here, take this,” Arthur said, dropping the coins he had been carrying on him into the cup. They clinked as they hit its empty bottom.

The blind man didn’t react for several moments, eyes fixed on a spot just above Arthur’s breast. Then he said, “You have seen much in your travels, sir. The burden you shoulder is much for one to carry… Perhaps even too much.”

Arthur chuckled slightly. The old man was nonsensical, as he always was. “Er, sure, mister. All the best to ya.” Pleased that he had helped someone in need, he made his way to Khione. It was about time he headed back to camp. Maybe the stew would still be warm by the time he got there.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite Dutch’s tentatively positive response to the truth, Arthur would, on occasion, catch Dutch watching him with a familiar skepticism. His doubt in Arthur’s story was clear in the way his smiles became a little more fake and how he stood a little farther away than he normally would whenever the two of them spoke. It reminded him all too chillingly of the other Dutch, and so it wasn’t long before Arthur went back to spending more time away from camp than in it. He preferred it to sticking around and waiting for one or both of them to say something a little too snide with just the wrong kind of tone. So Arthur hunted and chased leads he already knew existed, quietly donating whatever money, pelts, and game he gathered in the days he was gone. He thought back to the gold bars he’d hidden near Limpany but decided he’d keep them stashed away for now, just in case. The camp had more than enough at the moment to restock their supplies and morale was generally high, so he didn’t feel too guilty about it.

It took Arthur by surprise how quickly time passed; before he knew it, Hosea was waking him with a cup of coffee and telling him that Swanson had a lead down by Flatneck Station, while some of the boys had gone into Valentine. Today was the day. Arthur nodded and downed the rest of his coffee before turning to head out.

He was stopped by Hosea laying a gentle hand on his arm. Arthur paused. Hosea’s smile faltered as Arthur glanced over at him. “Is everything alright, Arthur? You’ve been away from camp a lot recently. If you need to talk about anything, you know I’ll listen.”

Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly thick as he was once again struck by sheer gratitude and disbelief at Hosea’s presence. At his concern and love. Arthur smiled, only a little shakily, guilt tugging at his chest from the secrets he had to keep. It was better this way. “I’m fine, Hosea, you know me. Just been busy chasin’ down leads is all.”

It was clear that Hosea didn’t completely believe him, but he nodded and left it at that anyway, wishing Arthur a pleasant trip. Arthur appreciated it. He didn’t need Hosea poking around and finding out things he shouldn’t, too; Dutch was doing enough of that for the both of them.

He left for Flatneck Station and found the Reverend playing poker, as he’d expected. Only this time, Arthur made sure to keep a tight hold on him while talking with the two sketchy fellers he’d been playing with. Needless to say, Arthur was relieved to bring Swanson back to Horseshoe Overlook without beating someone up or having an unfortunate run-in with a train.

Arthur caught Dutch’s eye as he passed him on his way to Swanson’s tent, carrying the Reverend’s barely-conscious form over his shoulder. The weight of the situation passed between them. Dutch took a deep drag of his cigar before stubbing it out and disappearing back into his tent, Arthur assumed to prepare for their trip into town. Sure enough, after Arthur dropped Swanson off at his bedroll to sleep off the alcohol and spoke briefly to Miss Grimshaw, Dutch reemerged wearing his black coat and hat. He spotted Arthur but only managed two steps forward before he was interrupted by an irate Molly. She pulled him back and immediately began asking where he was going and why he hadn’t told her about a trip, her voice sharp with irritation and concern.

A little amused despite himself at Dutch’s impatient response, Arthur turned toward Uncle, who was sleeping by the wagon. After waking him unceremoniously, Arthur asked if he wanted to head into town to run some errands with him and Dutch, to which Uncle agreed readily enough. Arthur took great delight in sending the lazy fool off to prepare the horses at the front of the wagon. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly approached him as Uncle headed over to the spare horses, the three of them having been listening in with poorly veiled interest.

“If y’all are headed into town, y’think you could take us too?” Karen asked hopefully, resting a hand on her hip and affecting an air of casual nonchalance.

Arthur shrugged. “Sure. Got something planned?”

Karen’s eyes lit up in triumph, but she continued to play it cool. “Nothin’,” she said, walking forward with Mary-Beth and Tilly trailing behind her excitedly. “But we’ll find somethin’ for y’all to do. We always do.”

Affection bloomed in his chest, spreading into a smile that perhaps was a little too fond to be characteristic of him. He’d missed this, the feeling of family, having been gone so much recently. Not to mention how everything had fallen apart last time. “That you do,” he responded lightly, resting his hands on his gun belt. “Sometimes I think you girls is the most useful of the lot of us.”

Tilly giggled. “Not that the competition is very tough.”

Arthur laughed, affection expanding into something bright and hopeful. “I s’pose not. C’mon then, up ya get, m’ladies.” And he gestured toward the wagon, making a show of dramatically extending his hand and inclining his head.

“Miss Grimshaw would disagree with you there,” Karen scoffed, taking Arthur’s hand and stepping up and onto the wagon.

Mary-Beth was next, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Karen’s about ready to murder Grimshaw,” as he helped her up. She levelled a teasing glance at the woman in question, who huffed in faux-annoyance and waved a hand dismissively.

“I can’t believe we’re going to see civilization,” Tilly chirped, changing the subject. She curtsied theatrically before taking Arthur’s hand, Arthur chuckling at her antics as she entered the wagon. “It feels like weeks since we did,” she continued, turning to Mary-Beth as she took her seat.

Uncle rolled his eyes as he rounded the wagon, having finished with the horses. “Valentine, the very embodiment of civilization,” he drawled, a little on the sarcastic side, climbing into the back of the wagon and taking a seat next to Tilly. “Well, you ladies are gonna love it.”

With everyone settled in the back, Arthur climbed up and into the driver’s seat. He turned and looked over his shoulder at where Dutch’s conversation with Molly was getting decidedly heated. Molly had started gesturing wildly, sending her fiery curls bouncing with every movement, while Dutch stood rigid with his arms crossed and his shoulders tense. Arthur allowed himself to enjoy Dutch’s clear discomfort for a few more moments; privately, he felt Dutch rather deserved Molly’s anger. Especially considering how he had drawn her away from her family, made her dependent on a gang of thieves, and then distanced himself when things started getting rough. She deserved more than that. Oddly enough, Arthur felt vaguely that he could relate to her, in a way. Could relate to the gradual disillusionment regarding the intentions and integrity of the man you were in love with, all the while still loving him and hurting all the more for it.

… And that was quite enough thinking, Arthur decided, recognizing the grim turn of his thoughts and not wanting to dwell too much on them after such a decent start to his day. He finally decided to interrupt their arguing and called out, “Dutch, you ready to head out?”

Dutch jolted, arms coming unwound and determinedly stepping around a still-aggravated Molly. Arthur found far too much pleasure in the clear relief of Dutch’s tone as he replied, “Of course, Arthur.” Molly threw up her hands and stormed away as Dutch climbed Arthur’s end of the driver’s seat, letting Arthur clasp his arm and help him across to the other side. Arthur tried not to think of the feeling of Dutch’s body heat next to him. It was difficult, what with his leg all pressed up against Arthur’s and almost radiating a searing warmth that burned like sitting just a little too near a fire. “I apologize for keeping you ladies waiting,” Dutch added, flashing a charming smile at their passengers over his shoulder.

The girls were quick to reassure him it was no problem, while Uncle complained, “Any longer and I might have died of old age.”

“And we’re all very disappointed you didn’t,” Arthur responded snidely, snapping the reins. “Hear that, Dutch? You should’ve taken even more time; maybe then we wouldn’t have to deal with this old fool.”

Dutch rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I could have endured it,” he said, voice light enough that the girls and Uncle thought it a joke and laughed uproariously at his remark.

With that, they set off toward Valentine. It didn’t take long before Uncle convinced the girls to break out into an enthusiastic rendition of “I Got a Gal in Valentine”, the old man clapping along and whooping as the ladies belted out the chorus with gleeful abandon. Dutch watched the scenery and pretended he was above such a raucous, unruly song, although it was clear he wasn’t unaffected by their high spirits. Arthur couldn’t stop the grin from forming on his own face, despite his nerves.

As they came up to the main road, Arthur caught sight of a stagecoach in the distance, travelling at a reckless speed. He suddenly remembered what had happened the first time around, with the coach driver losing his horses. Recognizing it as an opportunity, he nudged Dutch, who hadn’t yet noticed the carriage, and pointed it out with a subtle nod. Dutch turned his head to look, then glanced back to Arthur, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“The driver’s lost control of his horses,” he explained in a low voice, trying not to draw the attention of their singing passengers. “It’s gonna crash up ahead, just as we turn onto the road, and the horses are gonna get loose.”

Dutch’s eyebrows raised even further in surprise, then drew downwards in contemplation. “Oh? I suppose we shall see.”

Needless to say, the coach crashed. Arthur dismounted from the wagon at the girls’ insistence and went to help the driver retrieve his white shire from across the way, ignoring the way Dutch’s sharply calculating gaze bore into his back.

He climbed back into the driver’s seat afterwards, picking up the reins. Dutch was still staring at him, his expression a mixture of surprise and confused focus. Arthur felt heat crawling up the sides of his neck under the weight of Dutch’s complete attention, only becoming even more flustered as Uncle and the girls began teasing him for his generosity. Dutch seemed to snap out of it then, taking it upon himself to tease Arthur mercilessly about what surely had been Dutch’s gentlemanly influence in his upbringing, according to him. Arthur almost preferred Dutch’s silence.

When they finally arrived in Valentine, the girls went on their way and Arthur sent Uncle ahead to the general store, sensing that Dutch wanted to talk. He leaned against the wagon and, once Uncle was out of earshot, said, “So. You believe me yet?”

That contemplative, calculating gaze was back. They stared at each other momentarily before Dutch said, “I’m more inclined to, yes. And you brought the Reverend back from Flatneck Station, too. If everything else you said before turns out to be true as well…”

Arthur nodded. He could understand Dutch’s reluctance, given the circumstances. He wouldn’t believe himself either if only two minor events had lined up. They could have been coincidences, for all Dutch knew. Unlikely coincidences, sure, but time travelling was definitely an equally unlikely explanation. “Yeah, well, we’ll have to wait a while yet. Uncle just wants to get some booze while we wait for the girls. Hope you don’t mind kicking your feet up for an hour or so.”

Dutch smirked as they began making their way down the main road toward the store Uncle had entered, boots squelching in the soft, wet ground. “Who do you take me as? Have you forgotten who snuck you your first drink all those years ago?”

“I dunno Dutch, ’s been a while since you’ve let your hair down, so to speak. I was just startin’ to think you forgot how to.”

“I ain’t exactly had occasion to celebrate recently. You know that.”

Arthur’s smile faltered. Sensing his change in mood, Dutch patted him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that, son. Let’s just… enjoy ourselves for now. I’ll bet the old parasite has some preposterous tale he wishes to subject us to.” They arrived at the front of the store, Dutch reaching to open the door for him.

Trying not to let his errant thoughts run rampant, Arthur instead chose to remember the nonsensical anecdote Uncle had rambled on about last time, chuckling a little at the memory. “Oh, you have no idea.”

* * *

“... Arthur.”

Dutch’s voice sounded hazy and distant, as if Arthur was hearing it from underwater. Arthur grunted, slowly swimming back to awareness as his body began to register a warmth against the side of his face and recognize that something was jostling his arm. The smell of cigar smoke and bourbon wrapped around him like a gentle hug, and he didn’t want to wake up.

“Arthur.” Another nudge to the arm. The pleasant warmth underneath his cheek shifted. Arthur opened his eyes reluctantly, squinting a little at the light. It took a moment for his vision to steady and clear. Perhaps he’d drunk more than he’d intended.

“Gentlemen, I think I’ve got something good.” Mary-Beth’s voice, Arthur realized, startling fully awake and moving to rub a hand over his face. He blinked and, mortified, jerked fully upright as he realized that the warmth he’d been leaning against had, in fact, been Dutch’s shoulder. Cheeks heating, he cleared his throat and avoided Dutch’s amused grin, attention shifting to Mary-Beth, who was hovering over the three of them with anticipation.

When she saw that Arthur was awake and they were all listening, she continued, “I snuck into this fancy house — acted like a servant girl, usually works — and someone was saying her sister was takin’ a trip from… New York or someplace. A train full of rich tourists heading to Saint Denis and then cruising off to Brazil!” Her voice rose in pitch along with her excitement.

Dutch and Uncle were looking on with keen interest, the former likely already formulating plans in his head. “That is wonderful information, Mary-Beth,” Dutch said, in a low but eager voice. “Did you happen to hear anything else? A time frame or a location?”

“Well, it’ll be passing through a bit of deserted country at night, as to get to the docks in time for the tides. Someplace called Scarlett Meadows.”

“Yeah, I know it,” Uncle said. “It’s right out near New Hanover. Real quiet out there.”

Dutch nodded, rubbing a hand absently over his chin. “Good, very good. We might be able to get a decent score out of this.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agreed. Although… it hadn’t been as quiet as they’d hoped, if he remembered right. The law had shown up pretty fast… Bigger scores like robbing trains were risky business. Perhaps too risky. Drew too much attention from the local law. He shook his head slightly. There was time to think about it later. “Where’s Tilly and Karen?” he asked.

“At the hotel, probably,” Mary-Beth said. “They were picking up some drunken fellers they was gonna rob.” She paused. “They have been gone for quite a while.”

Dutch glanced at Arthur questioningly, to which Arthur gave a slight nod. He heaved himself to his feet and said, “I’ll go check on ’em.”

“Oh, there’s Tilly right there,” Mary-Beth said, pointing to where that Foreman feller was manhandling her around the corner of the hotel. “That… does not look ideal.” Arthur had half a mind to shoot him right there and then, save them some trouble later on, but that would attract too much attention and who knew what _that_ would change.

“’Scuse me,” Arthur said, and went to go take care of it.

One intimidated Foreman brother and one unconscious waste of space later, Arthur exited the hotel with Karen.

As the two of them crossed the road to regroup with the others, Arthur watched Dutch’s eyes land on the blood staining the corner of Karen’s torn lip. His lips pursed into a thoughtful frown, clearly thinking back to Arthur’s words from those weeks ago. Given the way the day was going, Arthur would be surprised if Dutch still didn’t believe him at this point. The look in his eyes only sharpened when Mary-Beth pointed out the man from Blackwater, who had been staring at them as they made their way back to the wagon.

“Weren’t you fellers in Blackwater a few weeks back?”

Arthur and Dutch exchanged glances. “Us?” Arthur asked. “No sir, ain’t from there.”

The man, Jimmy Brooks, only looked more terrified. “You were,” he insisted. “I definitely saw you two.” His eyes flickered nervously to Dutch. “And a bunch of other fellers.”

Just as Arthur opened his mouth to respond, Dutch cut in with a charismatic smile. “Sir, I’m afraid you simply must be mistaken.”

“Dutch,” Arthur hissed at him, a scowl forming on his face. “I can handle this.”

Ignoring him, Dutch took a step forward. “Me and my friends, we are itinerant workers, from a factory up North. Got laid off recently. We ain’t nowhere from that area, son. Are you sure you’re remembering right?” Another step closer. Brooks tugged nervously on the reins of his horse, sending the animal side-stepping away from Dutch.

“No, I’m sure of it… you look just like them…” Shockingly enough, Brooks seemed to falter in the face of Dutch’s charm. Arthur almost couldn’t believe his eyes as Dutch stepped even closer.

“How ’bout this, son, why don’t we sort this out over a friendly drink? You look like you need it.”

What? No. No way that was happening. This was exactly what he’d feared would happen… Dutch would get ideas in his head about how he could change things and then it would all get out of control. Arthur felt like an idiot. God, he should have known.

Arthur stepped around Dutch and in front of him, squaring his shoulders and trying to seem as intimidating and disagreeable as possible. It worked, judging by the way the terror near-instantaneously returned to Brooks’ face. “Listen, buddy, what you’re saying is impossible. C’mere for a minute.”

“No, I saw you; I’m sure of it now! Stay away from me!” With a shout, Brooks kicked his horse into action, its hooves churning up mud as it bolted down the street.

Arthur looked around and spotted a horse nearby, probably the same one he’d borrowed last time. As he stepped toward it, Dutch tried to get in his way, affronted. “Arthur! I had that under control.”

He didn’t, but Dutch didn’t know that, and he was too arrogant to admit he had no clue what would have happened if whatever he’d tried had succeeded. Arthur certainly wasn’t going to let him change something so unnecessary as chasing down Jimmy Brooks. Dutch had seen an opportunity to use the knowledge Arthur had given him and taken it. Arthur was a fool; he should have been far more careful with what he’d told Dutch. Biting back the sharp words brewing bitterly on the tip of his tongue, Arthur held up a hand. He didn’t have time for an argument if he wanted to catch up to Brooks. “Don’t. Just… don’t you have errands? _People_ to find?”

Reading the anger in Arthur’s gaze and hearing the venom in his voice, Dutch simply scowled a little and moved aside as Arthur mounted the horse. Arthur turned to Uncle and the girls, who were looking on in concern. “Uncle, you take the girls back. I’ll get after ’im.” He spared Dutch a glance, hoping his disdain was clear in his eyes. “Me an’ the boys’ll be out by the saloon, not that you give a shit about anything I say. Yah!” And he spurred his borrowed horse down the street, shouting at its distressed owner that he’d return it shortly, before letting the wind and the thundering impact of hooves on muddy ground drown out the sound of his own furious heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, Dutch immediately tried to do something against Arthur's will to change events he didn't need to and now Arthur is pissed at him, who would have thought?
> 
> Fun fact: the Jimmy Brooks scene was initially supposed to remain unchanged, but as I was writing it, Dutch decided he wanted to stir up some shit and it made so much sense for him to do it that I went along with it, and then this one singular event ended up splitting this chapter in two because it got too long and also indirectly led to me rewriting several significant plot points fldsjflslaksf
> 
> I guess that's writing for you :') Maybe I should take Francis' advice about the unexpected consequences of small changes to heart lmao


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah I'm so sorry there was such a delay in posting this chapter! School's starting to kick my ass again and I didn't have much time to write. Updates will probably still be slow in the near future as well, unfortunately. Not sure when I'll be able to get the next chapter out, so I won't promise anything other than the fact that my semester ends a little over a month from now and I'm really excited to be able to sit down and work on this fic, lol
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all enjoy!

Arthur’s knuckles throbbed as he drove his fist into the side of his opponent’s face. Rain and mud dripped into his eyes. He couldn’t see, he just knew he was angry, and he needed this. The sting of his skin splitting as he spilled blood. The feeling of an enemy he’d subdued struggling against him, kicking out, grabbing. Clawing to dislodge Arthur’s other hand, at his throat. Arthur only dug his fingers harder into the soft meat, blunt fingernails sinking into flesh. And Arthur struck again, blood singing with adrenaline. He relished in it. The power of pummelling bone underneath broken skin, the dull pain pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat, the ringing of his ears a pressure pounding at his temples from the inside out.

His opponent’s struggles faltered, weakened. They turned instinctive and animalistic rather than calculated, and Arthur knew he was beaten.

He remembered punching him again, last time.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until his face had been unrecognizable underneath the blood and bruises.

Until he’d been more than just beaten.

The taste of blood, metallic and sharp on his tongue, finally registered, and Arthur wanted to throw up. The pain in his knuckles no longer felt gratifying. He let go of the man’s neck, staggering back to his feet. His beaten opponent tried to lurch upright, uncomprehending of his defeat. Arthur shoved him back down and growled, “You’re beat. Stay down, you big fool, ’fore I change my mind and decide I _do_ want to see what the inside of your skull looks like.” The man listened, the rest of the fight leaving his body as he curled in on himself, groaning feebly.

Arthur spat, blood and saliva mixing with the mud at his feet, and he felt disgusted. At himself, and at the intoxicating rush he’d felt at the height of all the violence he’d just committed. He’d nearly beaten the man halfway to death, _again_ , even knowing what he’d done last time. How the man had been unable to speak afterwards.

His eyes fell on the familiar form of a skinny, emancipated man, pushing through the crowd and past Arthur to tend to the man lying battered in the mud. _Thomas Downes._ Seeing him only made Arthur sicker. It was a chilling, visceral reminder: Arthur had done some good with his life, in the end, but he had nearly forgotten that that didn’t make him a good man.

Shoving past two gawking bystanders, Arthur made his way underneath the overhang of the general store to get out of the rain, cataloguing his many pains on the way. He rolled his sore shoulder and grunted as his bruised side began thrumming with agony in response.

He spotted Dutch from across the street, leading Trelawny toward him, and he reached for a wooden post to steady himself as relief washed over him. Thank God. He had been worried that Dutch wouldn’t have been able to find Trelawny, since the former had come into town under different circumstances this time. The possibility of them somehow missing the eccentric magician in Valentine as a result of Arthur’s actions hadn’t occurred to him until he had returned the borrowed horse after confronting Jimmy Brooks, and by then Dutch was long gone and Arthur could only, again, curse his own lack of foresight. He was grateful to see that Dutch had managed just fine regardless of his foolishness.

“Making new friends again I see, Arthur,” Trelawny joked, hand on his hip and mustache twitching slightly as he took in Arthur’s exhausted slump and the filth dripping from him in large, wet clumps.

Arthur couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice at the sight of the jovial, well-dressed man. “Josiah Trelawny.” The man in question gave a dramatic bow, ending his theatrics with a flourish of the arm. Arthur used the wooden post he was leaning on to lower himself into a sitting position on the edge of the porch. Dutch leaned down to check on him, eyebrows furrowing as he took in the slowly reddening bruise on his cheek. Arthur waved away Dutch’s concern, turning his attention back to Trelawny. “Now what are you doing ’round these parts?”

Trelawny grinned widely, although Arthur didn’t quite know what he’d said that was so funny or charming. “You think I would miss out on all this glamour?”

“Naw, ’course not. How’ve you been?” Arthur asked, hoping to move along the conversation so they could get to the good bits.

“Quite well,” Trelawny responded, ever cheerful. And then, a little more conspiratorially, “I went to Blackwater looking for you gentlemen. You’re not very popular there, it seems.” His attention shifted when Javier, Charles, and Bill approached from where they had been watching Arthur’s fight, and he greeted them equally enthusiastically, with another bow to boot.

Dutch, growing impatient, cut in rather quickly after Trelawny gave his polite salutations. “You’re right about that. We ain’t too popular in Blackwater. What was it like, when you went through? Got any news?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. You’ve left behind young Sean, it seems.”

Everyone’s attention immediately flickered expectantly to Trelawny at his words. Dutch blinked in surprise, though Arthur wasn’t sure if he was feigning it or if he genuinely hadn’t expected Arthur’s story to hold any truth. “You know where he is?”

“Indeed. He’s being held by some bounty hunters, trying to see how much money the government will pay them. I know he’s in Blackwater, but there’s talk of them moving.”

Dutch nodded slowly, getting that faraway look in his eyes that meant he was coming up with a plan. Arthur watched him, unblinking even as a stray splatter of mud slid down the side of his face. Dutch finally said, decisively, “If he’s alive, we gotta try.”

“There’ll be Pinkertons all over the place,” Arthur said, more as a reminder than as a deterrent. Dutch frowned, almost as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Before he could respond, Trelawny spoke up.

“It’s you they want, Dutch,” he said, uncharacteristically serious.

Dutch turned his gaze onto Trelawny instead, expression grim. “It always is.” Then he straightened and took a step back, assessing the group before him and once again assuming his position as leader. “Charles, go find out what you can. Carefully. Josiah, take Javier. Arthur.” He paused, then reached into his pocket and pulled something out before pressing it into Arthur’s palm. Arthur stared down at his hand, met with the sight of several glittering coins. He blinked up at Dutch, uncomprehending. Dutch elaborated, “Get yourself a bath and a room for the night. Join them when you’re ready.”

Arthur was quite sure he hadn’t bothered with the luxury of a bath last time, but he had to admit a soak would ease the aching all over his body. And if it was on Dutch’s dime, well. Why the hell not? He shrugged in acquiescence, then stood, wincing at the way the movement pulled at his strained and beaten muscles. Dutch and Bill almost immediately began arguing over something as everyone else dispersed, which Arthur took as his cue to head across the street and into the hotel.

Upon his entry, the owner of the establishment gave him a look that was equal parts wariness and distaste. He’d probably witnessed the fight, Arthur realized, and likely had his doubts as to the legitimacy of Arthur’s patronage. To be fair, if Arthur had seen someone being thrown out a window and then getting into an almighty brawl in the middle of the street, he wouldn’t exactly be willing to offer his services either. Not to mention, Arthur was still covered in grime and dripping all over the wooden floor. The hotel owner quickly schooled his expression and said coolly, “Can I help you, sir?”

Arthur dropped the coins on the countertop with a clatter. “A bath, please. And a room for the night.”

The man picked up the coins, counting them under his breath and nodding along. When he finished, he gestured toward the hallway behind him. “Your room is down the hall and to the right. The bath is right across from it, someone’ll come let you know once it’s drawn.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, and made his way down the hall, a little self-conscious at the trail of mud he left in his wake.

He entered the room and immediately hung his satchel and coat up to dry, slinging his gun belt over a chair in the corner near the bed. As he looked up, he spotted himself in the mirror, and cringed at the sight of his reflection. “You’re a goddamn mess is what you are,” he grumbled to himself, walking closer. He nursed his aching jaw and turned his head a little to get a better glimpse of the bruise on his cheekbone. That would turn ugly in a day or two, but at least then it would match the rest of his appearance, he thought drily.

There was a knock at the door. “Your bath is ready, sir,” came a lady’s voice, polite and professional. Arthur straightened, grabbed some spare clothes from his satchel, and opened the door to see a young blonde woman with her hair up, smiling at him benignly as he closed the door behind him. “Would you like some help in there, by the way?”

Not really in the mood for the company of strangers, Arthur shook his head. “Nah, maybe next time.”

“Oh! Alright then.” She curtsied and left down the hall. Arthur walked into the bathroom, locking the door shut and leaving his spare clothes in a crumpled pile on a nearby chair. He stripped down to nothing, taking a moment to assess the rest of his injuries. There was some nasty bruising on his side and back from where he’d been thrown over a table and then thoroughly defenestrated, not to mention his arms were battered from blocking blows meant for his face. But all in all, pretty standard for a fistfight, and the other guy was probably hurting a hell of a lot worse.

Arthur groaned in relief as he sank down into the warm water. He simply sat there for a minute, soaking in the gentle heat, before beginning to scrub the mud and blood off his exhausted, aching body. Arthur had never been one to linger in the bath for too long, so he finished quickly and stepped out of the now cloudy water, reaching for his union suit. He straightened it and was about to put it on when the smell of stale sweat and musk hit him, causing him to wrinkle his nose. Right. He’d been planning on switching it out soon, and now was as good a time as any. Arthur put it back down, grabbing his spare work pants instead and pulling them on, all the while wishing he hadn’t left his satchel in the other room. His boots were still dripping with mud, so he shook them to get the worst of it off before pulling on his socks and jamming his feet into them. At least they were still mostly clean on the inside. He then considered his clean shirt and suspenders, lips pursed in thought. His room was just across the hallway anyway, and he had covered up just enough so he was decent. If he was quick, nobody would see him, and it would spare him taking them off again later when he’d have to get redressed with his undergarments on. Arthur made up his mind and nodded to himself.

Stepping up to the door, bundle of mud-soaked clothes in one hand, clean shirt in the other and suspenders slung over his shoulder, he paused and listened for footsteps. When he heard none, he eased the door open and peered down both sides of the hallway before hurriedly crossing to his room. He opened the door and took two steps before he froze.

“Dutch?”

Sure enough, Dutch was seated on the bed, staring back at Arthur in surprise.

Arthur blinked. Then, realizing he was still shirtless with the door open behind him, he shut the door and scowled, trying to will down the heat crawling up his neck. “The hell are you doing in here?”

Dutch continued staring for a beat longer before his eyes darted away to study a particularly interesting patch of wall, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I asked the owner where your room was. Thought we could have a little chat about things away from everyone else…. Could you please put something on?” Irritation edged his voice and Arthur only grew more embarrassed at his state of undress.

Cheeks burning now, Arthur dumped his sodden clothes on the chair where he’d left his gun belt and moved to the other side of the bed, out of Dutch’s line of sight. He shrugged on the clean shirt and fumbled with the buttons, scowling when they refused to cooperate before hastily tucking his shirt into his pants and then fastening his suspenders. Arthur cursed internally when he belatedly noticed the lopsidedness of his collar; he’d done up one of the buttons wrong, but Dutch was beginning to tap his foot in a sign of obvious impatience. So, flustered, he made his way back around the bed. Dutch patted the space beside himself in obvious invitation and Arthur obliged.

They sat in silence for a moment, Arthur staring hard at his hands and trying to compose himself. He hated talks like this, where it felt more like a fight than a talk. And he hated even more that it felt as though he’d started off with a disadvantage, having been caught so off guard by Dutch’s presence.

He glanced up and caught Dutch’s eyes lingering on the damp parts of his throat, exposed by his skewed collar.

… Perhaps he wasn’t the only one at a disadvantage, after all.

Pointedly not looking at Arthur’s neck, Dutch spoke, and just like that the tension was replaced with something more resentful. “What was that scene you caused earlier with that man from Blackwater?”

At the words, Arthur forgot his embarrassment as the anger he’d carried with him since the incident in question began to flare once again. “The scene that _I_ caused? I’m sorry, I must need my memory checked because to my recalling, _you_ were the one who interrupted _me_ when I had the situation handled.”

“Oh really, Arthur? Because it seemed to me that you were about to scare that man away with your… _brutishness_ when I could have handled the situation far more discreetly.”

Arthur was stunned at first. And then he was furious.

“Dutch van der Linde, you are quite possibly the most arrogant man I have the misfortune of knowing.”

If Dutch was shocked at Arthur’s bluntness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stood, towering over Arthur’s seated form with a rage that nearly matched his. “And what,” he said slowly, enunciating the words in that particular way he did when he was truly incensed, “the _hell_ do you mean by that?”

Arthur stood himself, the two of them ending up nearly nose-to-nose. He felt immensely satisfied when Dutch took an instinctive step back to create more space between them. There was no chance in hell he was going to allow Dutch to intimidate him or perceive that he’d succeeded in his posturing for even a second. “I mean exactly what I said. Who the hell do you think you are? You think you know enough about what’s good for the future that you can just change whatever you want, when I already told you it wasn’t a good idea to go around doing that?”

Dutch took another step back, perhaps not prepared for Arthur fighting back as vehemently as he was. “I—”

“No. Shut up and listen to me, for once in your _goddamn_ life. I told you. I didn’t say anything at first about this time travelling shit because I didn’t want you to screw things up more than they already are, and all you just did was prove I was right not to.”

At Arthur’s words, Dutch visibly bristled, shoulders drawing up defensively. “Well, I don’t see how what I did would have ‘screwed things up’ compared to what you had in mind,” he scoffed. “As far as I see it, all I would have done is let us have a nice chat instead of you chasing that poor man clear off a cliff!”

Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes before he levelled the older man with a pointed look. “Don’t pretend like you give a shit whether that ‘poor man’ lived or died. That’s beside the point anyway. You don’t know what could have happened, while I knew for sure the results of my actions.”

“I considered the possibilities, Arthur. I don’t see why you’re so caught up with all this; it would have been harmless.”

“You can’t know that, that’s my goddamn point!” Arthur shook his head. He didn’t know how to get it through Dutch’s thick, arrogant skull. “And you ain’t answered my question. What the hell makes you think you’re qualified to make choices on a future you don’t know when I told you I knew what I was doing? Do you just consider yourself above listening to folk because of some stupid idea you have that you always know better? Or do you just not trust me to know what’s best, is that it?”

Dutch recoiled, face contorting even further as disbelief mixed in with the anger. “Arthur, just listen to yourself! Of course I trust you, have you forgotten all these years we’ve ridden together?”

“I ain’t forgot, but all I ever see from you nowadays is talk. From where I stand, you sure don’t act like you give a shit about what I think, ’least not anymore.”

Dutch fell into an enraged silence. It seemed almost like Arthur’s words had ignited a new level of Dutch’s fury. His dark brown eyes blazed with a terrifying sort of anger, and Arthur felt his entire body tense without conscious input in response, as if bracing himself. He waited, breath held, and dreaded what would come next.

A moment passed. Then another. And then, somehow, something Arthur had said must have gotten through to Dutch, because the fight slowly drained out of his face. His gaze darted away from Arthur, then back, and settled at a spot somewhere above Arthur’s shoulder.

“... You’re right,” Dutch said haltingly. His hands came up to rub down the length of his face. “I’ve been… immensely stupid. I’m sorry. I believed I knew better than you, which is idiotic now that I think about it, especially considering the circumstances.”

The apology was a little stilted, but it still felt… genuine. Arthur blinked and his lips parted, suspended as he was in what seemed like an eternal state of shock. He hadn’t expected Dutch to give in and actually _apologize_ , but he couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved. The tension left his body in a long exhale. He suddenly felt exhausted, the aches and pains from his earlier brawl making themselves loudly known once again now that he wasn’t bracing himself for a fight, and he all but collapsed back into a sitting position on the bed. Dutch hesitated before joining him, sitting a little farther away than before, likely wary of another (well-deserved, in Arthur’s opinion) angry outburst. “... Yeah,” Arthur said after letting Dutch stew in uncomfortable silence for longer than was perhaps necessary. “You damn well shoulda. But you’ve always been a crazy fool, so I should have expected it.”

Dutch gave a strained smile, not quite catching onto the sardonic part of Arthur that had been quite serious, before it fell away again in place of a more solemn expression. “So it’s all true then. Everything you said about how you… ended up here.”

“I mean, I would hope it’s kinda obvious by now.”

Dutch’s head dropped into his hands. “Jesus…”

“Yeah.”

“How… how the hell is any of this possible?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”

“Jesus,” Dutch repeated. A pause. Then he said, “I truly do understand that you know best. I won’t interfere with your plans anymore, it was foolish of me to do in the first place.”

Arthur frowned at him. “That’s a nice sentiment, but you won’t have the chance to. I ain’t about to tell you anything else, not after all _that_.”

He half-expected Dutch to argue, but Dutch just winced, resigned. “That’s… fair.” Then Dutch’s brow furrowed in thought as something occurred to him. “Ah, right—I have to ask. You returned back at Colter, when you passed out.” He trailed off and looked at Arthur, who nodded in confirmation. Dutch’s lips pressed together into a thin line, his dark eyes boring holes into Arthur’s. He continued, “So… that means the first thing you did was yell at me when we went to go find Micah. Not to mention your general hostility. Did I… _do_ I do something to incur your wrath?”

… Well, shit.

Out of everything he’d thought Dutch would have said, he was perhaps the least emotionally prepared to deal with… _this_. But Dutch always was too perceptive for his own good, at least before everything started falling apart, and particularly with things concerning Arthur. Arthur opened his mouth, knowing he needed to say something, but he was at a loss for words. Confirming Dutch’s theory could make things even more strained and awful between them, but he didn’t think he could convincingly pretend like Dutch _hadn’t_ done anything.

In the end, Arthur’s uncertainty was his undoing and his lengthy silence spoke for itself. Dutch turned his eyes away from Arthur’s face and cast them downwards to study the light gleaming off the rings on his fingers. “I see,” he said quietly. He inhaled, then exhaled, breath trembling audibly as he seemed to steel himself, looking back up at Arthur from underneath the brim of his hat. “I don’t know what I did, but I can tell it’s hurt you, tremendously. So I’m sorry, for whatever it is.”

A tightness was suddenly gripping Arthur’s throat. When he spoke, his voice came out rougher than he would have liked. “Can’t apologize for something you ain’t done yet,” he said. “’Sides, it weren’t something an apology can just… fix.”

Dutch’s expression filled with a resigned sort of sorrow. Arthur was the one who looked away this time, unable to continue seeing the vulnerability and raw emotions on Dutch’s face. They sat together in grim silence for several moments, the shadows in the room growing gradually longer as the sunlight faded outside.

Arthur physically startled as he felt the sudden, unexpected glide of calloused skin on his. Dutch was taking Arthur’s hands, achingly gentle and yet somehow desperate at the same time. Arthur’s eyes skittered up from where they had been fixed stubbornly on the floorboards, nervously skipping over Dutch’s face. The radiant glow of the sunset caught on Dutch’s eyelashes, gleaming wetly. “Whatever I did,” Dutch said, fervently, shocking Arthur with the earnestness in his tone, “I promise you, I won’t do it again, all your talk of not changing things be damned. Nothing that happens as a result of that will be worse than the pain I don’t doubt I’ve put you through, to get you to look at me the way you did back in Colter. The way you still do now, sometimes. Have faith in me.”

There it was, that damned _faith_ again. Arthur opened his mouth, not sure what he was about to say but the weight of it burning acidic on the tip of his tongue anyway. Then Dutch slumped forward, curling over as if he’d been wounded. Arthur felt the backs of his knuckles brush against Dutch’s forehead, and the words stuck and shrivelled up in his throat.

“Please,” Dutch whispered, voice cracking, the plea leaving his lips like an imperfect prayer. 

Arthur closed his eyes, refused to think about why the world before him had suddenly blurred into a glorious golden haze, felt his breath shudder in his chest. Burning warmth spilled over his cheeks. The two of them remained in heavy silence until long after it grew dark.


End file.
